edited, from a letter to a friend
I don't know what to say about this. Casey and I hates it here. We would like to move.
Visiting would mean I stick him in a cage in a kennel during thunderstorm season, and spend my whole visit feeling worried and guilty about him, wondering whether the kennel people have managed to lose him, or whether he has broken off his teeth trying to bite through the bars. He's better about his brontophobia now, but that's because he has a safe place to go (under my bed) and is used to me. Still, I worry.
Visiting would also mean half my yard dies. That's less important, but still, I don't have a lot going on for myself here. If I have to lose a year's gardening, I'd like to get something out of it beyond a week or two's visit.
Visiting means I get to pretend to be part of something I'm not, for a few weeks, and then come back to a worsened situation, at best. At worse, my dog is gone, crippled or dead, and my neighbors have burned down my houses.
I'd rather move. I'd rather start being part of something.
I don't know how to get there and I don't know how to talk about this. All I can do, and am, for now, is to work on getting rid of stuff, including selling stuff off. There are some small gleams of light there. I need to have some kind of gig; I've given up on believing there will be any money from anywhere. Maybe yes, maybe no. Maybe the world will steal it all.
But I'm not some happy middle class person, who can just casually go off and take a trip and come back and everything will be fine. Air travel scares the shit out of me. What if something goes wrong? What if I miss one of the endless connections? What if I get stuck somewhere, no place to go? What if I'm on the no-fly list? I don't even have a fucking credit card.
I want to move. I want to figure out how to support myself, and get the hell out of here. I'd love to see all of you.
But what am I supposed to do? Set my yard on fire? Shoot my dog every year when somebody would like my attendance?
I don't know what else to tell you. I'm working on trying to get out. But right now that means trying to raise some money. There is NEVER going to be enough money.
My teeth are rotting. God knows what else is wrong with me.
I'm not middle class. I'm living below poverty level. All the plumbing in my houses is broken, pretty much. I haven't taken a shower since 2006. The hot water heater cratered shortly after.
I have virtually no friends. When I do, I get told stuff like "Well, you should take pills! They would make you feel better!"
It's like telling someone who is hemorrhaging that she should invest in band-aids. I have REAL problems, not imaginary ones. I need money.
And what I keep coming back to, with all of this, is that I'm well aware that there are BILLIONS of humans on this planet much worse off than I am, and who would indeed be delighted to trade places with me. So it's not right to bitch about my life. So I shut up about it, mostly. And then everybody keeps assuming I'm more or less like them, which I'm not. I'm more like street people.
And that means, no; I'm not going to get all excited about being invited to have a lunch date and hear some woman complain about how her husband won't sort his laundry correctly. And no, I'm not going to get all up about hearing about all the latest pre-emptive medical screening. And no, I'm not going to clap my hands and say "Wow!" upon being shown slide shows of all of these people's adventures.
And they hate me for that. What kind of a piss-poor poverty-stricken audience are you anyway, Miep? You're supposed to be grateful.
I'm quite tempted to turn this into a blog post.