Sunday, May 27, 2007
Sent: Sunday, May 27, 2007 2:19 AM
Subject: Life Change
Crud. Just like a lot of other things, I saw this coming. Decided to change my life last year so that we could continue to afford our fabulous standard of living before it hit us too hard. I'm manic depressive, an artist. My mania fueled my obsessions, made a lot of money that way. I was a shining example of the Paper Street Soap Company, selling people's fat asses back to them. I'd sell the townies a handful of the numerous "weeds" we grow here for a ridiculous price. I convinced them they were getting something rare and wonderful, and they were so happy to fork up the cash.
We bought this place 15 years ago, out in the country, no one bothers us. Problem was, I had to travel to sell this fabulous homegrown crud, was gone a lot. My husband is schizophrenic, but super-intelligent, the kind of person that is too busy building a solar incinerator to remember that trash doesn't go in the microwave. Doesn't do so well when he's alone. Daughter in college, living on campus. I needed to be home more, needed to quit spending so much time and money traveling to sell my stuff. So.
They were building a BP station on the highway, 3 miles from home. I thought, "Cool, I'll get me a job there and be management in less than a year, save some gas, stay home, take care of business, wait until the wind changes, maybe it easy for a while." Right.
Our daughter graduated college, headed to Chicago, got a sweet job. I'm in management, like I predicted. I owe a bit of money, helping her pay for her last semesters. Husband had a freak-out fit, went into the hospital, dog got sick, expensive treatment - love her, so I'll pay. Dad in the nursing home, dying. I got sudden onset of rheumatoid arthritis, can hardly walk, much less do the crazy stuff I used to do to make a living. Have to pay for meds. Not like we get insurance or anything.
I hate the job, can't afford to quit now. Still manic-depressive, still an artist, but no time, no outlet, my body turned on me. I'm only 42.
I'm a slave to freakin BP. Gas spiked another 31 cents one day last week. People hate us, but they keep sucking up the fuel. I hate people who can't say no. We get threats. They scream at us. They drive off with the gas, they think we owe them, some of them think it's fun, a game. The big guys think that should come out of our paychecks. Sometimes I feel like we should have a body guard when we go to work. Sometimes I think of sabotage, but what happens when I bite the hand that feeds me? Sometimes I think of suicide, but who will feed the ones I leave? Who will put fuel into Zabu, my intergalactic Jeep with 270k miles on it? Guess I'm stuck here.
I have bad knees, a foul disposition, and a medicated smile. Didn't see that coming. I'm good at planning. I'm giving serious thought to some serious shit. I feel like that chick at the end of that Terminator movie, watching the storm clouds with her dog. I won't sit idle.