Burn in hell. I wish I believed in hell so I could hope for you to spend eternity burning. Instead, I hope you die a slow, miserable, cancerous death. Thanks, boss. I have 12 more days eating your shit and I only work with you 5 too many. Do your worst…provided you aren’t already.
“So, what are we going to do if we get evicted?”
Who the fuck cares? At this point they’re lucky I don’t burn it down out of spite.
My body has started to object to how much physical labor I demand from it daily, and I wish you dead every day. Just fucking die.
The nights would not be complete without sirens. It’s such a prominent part of the neighborhood that I can easily tune it out along with the sound of shots fired, and the low musical rumble of car audio base. At some point having bullet holes–both incoming and outgoing–pepper the walls just becomes part of the decor.
I exaggerate. There are only four bullet holes, and I screamed when they dropped in.
Sometimes, nice people just need more specific directions to the drug den across the street, three houses to the east, or in the west corner lot next door…depending on demeanor. That’s fine, but get the fuck off my stoop and be on your way.
Please, don’t loiter in my backyard. Cut through, but keep moving. Despite what the fast food fucks sharing the lot line want you to think, this isn’t part of their thoroughfare either.
If getting a dog gets us evicted, when the neighbors can ram their car into our wall without consequence, I’m fine with that.
Believe is or not, my student loan debt isn’t going to dictate my surroundings forever, and an eviction from this wouldn’t fuck up my permanent record enough for me to give a shit.
Now…you said something about a dog?
I’m sure most of you have given up on peering into my life via this portal by now, as I have been highly inconsistent and increasingly infrequent with posting anything whatsoever.
I have slowly shifted away from heavy reading and incessant writing. This is predominately due to the energy I’ve found necessary to devote to my daily turmoil; a turmoil which has drastically increased in its demand for various forms of fuel from me in order to run relatively smoothly.
I’m currently party to an extremely high maintenance relationship. As I’ve found the most casual relationships an arduous burden in the past, this long term commitment exudes an entirely novel level of dedication for me. The majority of my time has once again been swallowed by the wage wars of working 60+ hours per week in an attempt to survive an IRS audit, monthly bills, and my old constant companionship with my haunting student loans.
I am succeeding with these endeavors, so I can’t honestly apologize for my neglect and failure to maintain a balance with old interests. My behavior is fairly cyclical, so I’m likely to come back to old habits, but my life is boring right now. It is not warranting much reflection or analysis, and while I do still pay attention and take issue with the world around me, I honestly don’t give a shit about engaging in any social discussions.
I simply don’t care what you think about anything. Well, that sounds a little too dismissive…I care, but I’m not particularly interested? I’m interested but not intrigued? Bah…
I just want to look at pretty pictures on my phone while I should be working and pretend my life isn’t what I’ve made it.
Depression does a lot of damage.
I haven’t come here. I haven’t felt a need to rely on a publicized internal dialog for a few years. Well, I either haven’t felt the need or haven’t had the energy to acknowledge the need. I’ve made a lot of changes but not nearly enough to make much difference. They are all surface changes.
I’m not where I think I should be, and I want to blame my unstable mental state; but I’ve made the decision repeatedly not to treat it. I don’t treat it. I don’t do anything, so using it as a crutch shouldn’t be considered as a viable option either. Having somebody close enough to see it and bring it to my attention makes me angry, and using that person as a distraction rather than really accepting him into my life is…the best I’ve been able to do.
Sometimes, my mind clears, but I would rather keep it dormant in the mud. I’ve lost so much of myself. I’ve shut it all down just to be able to get through the daily grind, and barely get through at that.
Things could be, and have been, a lot worse.
Let’s go with that.
We are not friends, and having ever thought otherwise has cost me a lot of time and energy.
You can stop trying to throw that in my face any time now.
Your manipulative shit has no affect anymore, and I’m sorry if that pisses you off
or hurts your feelings.
You married your boss and hit your glass ceiling a long time ago.
A long, long time ago.
That’s not my problem and not my fault; and I didn’t consult you, because you’re not even my fucking boss.
You’re a supervisor, and again; I’m sorry if pointing that out to you hurt your feelings.
It’s not betrayal to discuss my decisions with your husband and his sister without acknowledging you
because let’s be honest
all you were going to do is exactly what you did after you found out anyway.
Being a manipulative bitch is all you can do. You can’t hire and fire. All you can do is make my job harder
Which I’m so shocked that you’re doing, by the way.
Because I really care about the shitty incentive I have to keep caring…which I oddly recall turning down
when your husband offered it to me in the first place.
I don’t give a shit what you do or what you think.
It really shouldn’t be personal at all, because if it was, I wouldn’t even give notice.
I sure as fuck wouldn’t care or keep doing a good job.
You are all petty, pathetic people and deserve to fail for the way you conduct yourselves, but who the fuck cares?
How I feel doesn’t matter.
All that matters is that I addressed what I find unacceptable about the job.
Your family offered no acceptable solutions, so I’m leaving.
That’s it. That’s all that’s applicable here.
Getting a raise at starting wage elsewhere with actual potential to progress,
access to benefits,
and a work environment where I have been and will be treated like a contributing adult
is just icing on the cake for me.
I’m attempting to conduct myself as a professional adult. I recommend you do the same
even though I’ve already lost all respect for you.
You can treat me however the fuck you want for these last…11 days, but I’m leaving.
I’m still leaving.
Don’t make it out like I betrayed you.
You can stop running your ugly mouth.
Don’t treat me like I’m worthless to your business.
Just suck it up and keep on driving that place into the ground without me.
Since early adolescence, I have been in and out of the care of many mental health professionals. I have seen counselors, psychotherapists, psychologists, and psychiatrists. I know the key variations delineating these titles. I have been hospitalized both inpatient and outpatient. I have had equally varied diagnoses and treatment regimens over the years both voluntary and involuntary.
When you tell me, “I have a chemical imbalance,” there’s no judgement here. I know that you’re familiar with the system. I recognize the language. I won’t look at you like you’re weak or sick or marred by an inferior genetic makeup.
I cope without treatment. It’s a personal choice that some doctors have supported and others have not. It’s not easy, and I’m certain it’s not always in my best interest. I wish you wouldn’t seek my advice on this, as if what I’ve done is a solution. I don’t know you. You say you don’t want to take your medication anymore and that your doctor advises against changing what has been sustaining your current state for over a decade…so you keep taking it.
I can’t tell you what’s best for you. Why do you want to stop taking your medication? Go back to when you started, and think about how and why you entered the system. Try to remember how your mind worked when it failed you. The things that are missing, the things that don’t work the same way on medication, don’t think about that. Think about the worst moments when your brain tripped every wrong wire. Wrong by your standards. Your mind left you where you didn’t want to be and didn’t leave you with the resources to change that. If you’re properly medicated, you won’t be able to simulate the intensity of those feelings. You might not even have those memories anymore, and the healthy mind wonders why you would want them.
If there’s something in you now that’s missing the worst of your worst…
I deal with my worst, because I don’t think the same way when in treatment. It’s a common gripe with mental health patients,but it bothers me. It bothers me more that, despite this construct trying to accommodate the proclivities of an individual, the whole point of treatment is change. It helps alter the links the mind makes. Even if it’s psychotherapy without any physical or chemical intervention at all, it’s meant to help adjust thought patterns.
I don’t want to do that.
I’m essentially an organic alcoholic: There’s not a problem. This is fine. Fuck you. Except, sure, I can see how you might see this as a problem. I don’t like it either, so it’s a problem. It’s not fine, but still. Fuck you. It’s my problem. You’re fine. Fine, I’m sick. Leave me the fuck alone. Fuck you.
Keep taking your meds. Balance your brain chemistry. There’s always going to be a little bit of dry drunk in there.
Didn’t they tell you?
It’s a disease.