So it was one of those weeks, those weeks when the best thing that happened to you was that you got $200 in food stamps, expedited. Damn, you think. I didn’t even know I was that poor! Those weeks when certain oral surgery, riding six buses to get to one job interview, failing your road test for a second time (despite praying for a license so employment is possible), and just generally coming to the realization that you no longer are capable of seeing beauty in the world just kinda start to get to you. But, man, getting $200 in food stamps—expedited! That really did make you want to call your friends, or at least your mom, in excitement.
Does having food stamps affect your credit score? If I even searched it online it could totally fuck with me later. You shouldn’t be even worrying about that shit, man. I bet if you’re worried about your credit score, your credit score goes down automatically. You should have so much free cash that that’s never a question. All I’m saying is, when Americorps starts to look like a rich option, it might be time to refinance. That booklet on financing I got at graduation is totally helping me now.
Not to mention that there’s the daily just wishing to die that goes on, the fact that I've never seen the appeal in cutting but when I pinched my hand by accident a few months ago it felt so good and I still think about it, the isolation and misunderstandings (lesbian=traumatized=man-hating), the need to just be held and no one there for it, the moments when you jump because something beeped, the many many days when you wake up more tired than when you went to bed, the daily lack of digestion, the loss of relationships with fathers brothers male friends and therapists because you you you can't handle it, the constant small battles against the shit of the world that so often seem to have no effect.
And, somehow, this is my life maxed out. This is the best it can be right now. Shit, man. I dunno. I just dunno. Some days I look ahead of me and feel that this is one hard part of my life, but mostly it’s just hard to see. When you don’t have anyone to lean on the way you need to lean, then it’s really hard to chart any kind of course at all. When it’s hard to even just put one foot out on the street, and going into your house isn’t really better, well, it’s difficult some days just to be in your own skin. But there’s nowhere to go but your own body.
All I’m saying is: welcome to the life of a queer seven sisters alum with PTSD. Quit my shitty 70-hour-week Americorps job because I had PTSD (and therefore needed time and care and friends and a safe neighborhood) and was getting harassed for being queer, moved back here where I make $500 on a good month and chill with acquaintances because I don’t have close friends here yet and volunteer most of my hours as an activist. You, too, can do this with your prestigious degree. I’m the most privileged kinda dyke you might find: got class privilege in terms of my family (which still supports and loves me), got me some race privilege, got a fancy degree from a dykey college. And here I am, shelling out for my loans!