Aggravated. Jittery. Clawing at the walls, at the air, at my own face. The pain in my head is relentless.
He wants me to get a full-time job. Okay, doing what? I have been on a register for thirty-five years. All the dreams I had are gone, the skill-sets rusty or useless, my ambitions crumbled to dust. I feel so ground down, I no longer take pride in myself or my surroundings. I worry for the idling’s future: I think we have failed her as parents, that she isn’t ready to face the world as an adult. I look back and wonder which choices I made, that I should have made differently.
I hate this house, this city, this culture, this political mess, this job, this person I have become. I want to hide…beneath my blankets, in a cave, under a rock….I want to run away, but I have nowhere to go, no way to get there, and nothing to do once I am gone from here.
No more celebrating my birthday. I have out-lasted my usefulness by 20 years.