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Eats scissors and stabs with paste.

Premises before conclusions or shut the fuck up.


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Well, aren't I just Sister Mary Funtimes.
Nikita
ficangel


My dad's estate is never going to be wrapped up, I don't think. Ever. And it's affecting my mental health pretty significantly by this point, but I'm in too deep to get out of it.

I don't cope well when I don't have an escape hatch. This is going to be a theme.

Also not going well? My new job. I have basically never felt more stupid and worthless in my life. I've been told that wanting to throw up for several months is normal, but I completely understand why no one in my department has been there for longer than two years. I can't tell whether I'm doing better, worse, or average as compared to where I should be after three weeks; like escape hatches, I also don't deal well with uncertainty. On Friday morning, a very clear thought popped into my head: "If you wreck your car, you don't have to go in." I spent a significant part of Monday cataloguing suicide methods according to likelihood of success and how much it would hurt/odds of going wrong. (I know what you're thinking, but I have anxiety disorder with attendant depression, not the other way around, so the odds of me actually doing any of these things becomes ever-more vanishingly small the more I can't shove them out of my head: escape hatches. I actually became calmer afterwards, and I realize how fucked-up that is even as I'm typing it.)

Well, fuck. I know this feeling. This is the feeling that accompanied the Great Grad School Meltdown, also known as that one time that I sobbed on a bathroom floor for two nights straight and scared the living shit out of everyone around me. Unlike the Great Grad School Meltdown, however, my back is not against the wall financially. I still have over half of my dad's life insurance left. I can go about three years without a job if I'm smart with my money, there is an escape hatch this time around. Considering I made one during the Great Grad School Meltdown by essentially bludgeoning myself bloody against the impossible until it cried uncle and became possible, I'm not entirely sure that the lack of it would stop me, anyway.

And then I made the mistake of trying to talk to my mother. The highlights were her all but calling me a liar several times, asking me if I then wanted to work in a gas station, since I can't hack it at a big-girl job, and snapping that she wished I didn't have the life insurance money, since I'm using it as a "crutch and a cop-out." Now, I haven't told her about the suicide ideation. I did tell her that I was tempted to deliberately crash my car, that's just how much the idea of going into work is making me sick and upset, and I was crying when I told her...so. Maybe the sociopathy gene doesn't only come from my dad's side of the family. And maybe I shouldn't be shocked, either, since this is the same woman who, when I finally got up the nerve to tell her about my eating disorder as a teenager after mostly coming through the other side, answered, "Well, that was stupid." This is why I have such a fascination with made families and reptiles. Sure, you might have a 90% chance of getting eaten before you make it down the beach and into the water, but you're a fucking turtle, what do you know about existential crises and family reunions? We're not even going to go into the utter hypocrisy of her lecturing me on managing money or getting my ass in to work.

The person who's been training me is on vacation for the rest of the week, so I have until Tuesday to start failing utterly again and decide what to do. All I know is that I'm running on about nine cumulative hours of sleep and 1600 calories (not the eating disorder rearing its ugly head again, I'm just too stressed out to keep anything down) over the past three days. But, by golly, I'm not a good daughter unless I stick it out, 'cause bootstraps.



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