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2004-03-02 @ 9:31 p.m. |
| Here is your horoscope for Tuesday, March 2: You're still no closer to escape. Consistency would be nice, but first you need sincerity and meaning. Brace yourself for another day or so of floundering before you connect with something solid. Only a day or so more of floundering?? Really?? Promise?? And then what?? A fulfilling love life? A mansion on a hill? A gold plated SUV? A Cell phone that plays The Minute Waltz in 57 seconds? What...I want details!! Yes, its true, I do need a little sincerity and meaning. Well, actually a lot. Ya mind backing that tracker trailer up to my front door? Am feeling so delightful. PMS, a shrink appointment, seeing Married Guy, spending the night at my mother's house so I could borrow her car for my appointment...all in a 24 hour period.  Yup, yup, yup, we're having fun. "A" was his usual irresistibly irritating self. Today's theme was poke the bipolar with a stick. The stick was called "Get a job". I've been on disability for over 2 years. Deservedly so. I'm the poster girl for bipolar. Upsy. Downsy. Way downsy. Way Upsy. Lets do dangerous stuff without thinking of the consequences. Lets move 23 times. Let's stomp on other people's boundaries to see if they'll stick around. Let's not leave the house for 6 months. Are those people staring at me? Are those people staring at me? Are those people staring at me? Lets walk outside naked. Yup, never a dull moment at the witty kitty house. Mental illness is so ultra cool. Well...not really. Well, not at all. And now my shrink thinks a job will help me get better. Before I left the workforce, I was a graphic artist. And before that I worked for newspapers as a writer. And briefly in my twenties I worked in retail. But, as you can see, I mainly worked in creative jobs. Because...well, I'm a creative person. My shrink thinks I should just "get a job". Like a cashiering job. Something where I stand in one spot for 5 hours and punch numbers into a cash register. So I can make money and not feel so isolated. OK, I like the making money and not feeling isolated part. I agree that would be good. But grabbing the first mundane standing-in-one-spot-punching-numbers-into-a-cash-register-to-infinity-job-with-no-creativity? Not a good idea. How long I would last? One day. Possibly one hour. Sorry. Does not compute, Will Robinson. That is not to say, that those kinds of jobs are not good jobs. They are. Just for the right kind of person. But for a flake-o, wildly hyperactive paranoid bipolar who would probably want to paint the cash register pink with purple flowers, at the controls? Well, I think its a recipe for disaster. Pure and simple. I tried to explain this to "A", that I needed something creative like teaching piano, which I really enjoy immensely or doing something with the arts, but he didn't think it was realistic. He said he would enjoy teaching writing but he can't make a living at it. I told him he reminded me of my father. My Dad never understood my creativity either. He wanted me to be a dental hygienist. And when I registered for college and signed up for a graphic arts program, he threatened to withdraw his financial support. So I dropped all my graphics programs. Every last one of them. And then I just took the basics, which got me....well, nowhere. Except for some low paying jobs in retail in the 1980's. Yay! And now...hey, here I come again. Some more low paying jobs where I work a cash register! Except now I'm bipolar. And I'm angry. And I might possibly knock over a display of dishes and go smash the headlights out of some yuppie's SUV if they don't get their VISA card out fast enough. It could happen. I get agitated really fast these days. I'm not sure why the universe is conspiring against my need to be creative. I just want to draw some pictures. And play the piano. And take some pictures. And write some stories. I happen to be pretty good. I may be somewhat lacking in the confidence department, but not in the talent department. So, please don't make me be mundane...  Because I'm not. Older Entries |
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty |
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