Kitties Are On Their Way

It looks like my cats are headed home. I am so thankful. I tell myself that when they get here I will feel better, but I suspect it isn't true. I suspect I will be as fucked up as ever.

But at least their furry little heartbeats will be on my chest. I am so thankful for this piece of home.

But it seems, not

So I had this job at the Empire. It was a good job, an impressive job, and a job that looked good on my resume. I didn't particularly like it, but I was going to put in five years or so to see if it got better. Either that, or it would give my resume enough credit to move on. And I was good at the job. I'm always, good, at the job.

But then I was laid off. Happens to people all the time, I know. Rough economic times and all that.

And I looked for work, like a normal person, and I couldn't find any, mostly like a normal person. I had some interviews, and they went really well, but I still didn't get the jobs. Again, mostly like a normal person.

And then I got rejected from the country. Not so much like a normal person. I had overstayed my welcome it seemed and I wasn't allowed back. I understand. I fucked up. And now they fucked me up. I didn't know that I had been naughty and I didn't know that was going to happen, obviously. But it happened. There you are.

And now I've spent hours trying to phone consulates and embassies and immigration to try to figure out how to get a temporary entry into the US to get my things. It doesn't seem that anyone knows how to do this. People just tell me that they don't know what to say. OK then. Thanks. You're the 37th person that knows nothing. Congratulations.

And now I have a job offer. Good right? Well, sort of. It means moving my life onto an island. It means taking a gigantic step backwards for my career. It means working for a company that I already don't believe in. It means working on products that I don't believe in. And, perhaps most importantly, it means cutting my salary by about 45%

It means taking a giant step backwards. And I don't know that I can do that. I'm 31 years old. If I'm not making my career work now, I'm not going to. And here's the thing: I have nothing else. I have no family, I barely have friends, I'm not happy, I don't have my health; all I had was my career. So, if I don't have that, I don't have, anything.

Anything. Nothing. Just a hole. Just a chasm. Just place-markers where a life should be.

I thought I was going to get that one thing. I thought I had worked hard enough for that one thing. I thought I had proved that I deserved just that one thing.

But it seems, not.

Antidepressants for Bipolars?

If you're bipolar you hopefully already know this, but there is a big controversy as to whether antidepressants should be prescribed to bipolars at all. Some say that antidepressants will destabilize bipolars and thus hurt more than they will help.

My advice? If you can get better on mood stabilizers alone, a) you're lucky and b) you'll probably be more stable than those of us who can't.

Please see the link above for all the information.

Everywhere Is Anywhere

So I've survived this long, after being kicked out of my country, and being separated from my my cats. Yes, I'm surprised too.

But I have to say, I'm hugely down on myself. I can't stop beating myself up for being so stupid as to get turned away in the first place. And beating myself up for not having a job. And beating myself up for being depressed. And beating myself up for being in my mother's house. And beating myself up for beating myself up. I hate myself on so many levels right now.

And so with the hating comes the harming. It seems so much like I deserve it. I deserve to be smacked across the face with a 2 X 4. I deserve the pain and suffering because of the pain and suffering. Because of the anxiety. Because of how scared I feel about the future.

But I cannot do that. I cannot hurt myself because I'm in someone else's house and they want to know what I'm doing every second of the day. It would have to be so discrete and in such a covered place that I just can't bare to do it. I don't know why. I'm over logic.

But the problem with not hurting yourself is that you don't get the release that it brings. The blood or the bruise or the burn brings a release of energy, a release of hatred. I feel like I hate myself even more because I'm not doing it. The hate is bottled up and squeezing away at my lungs and heart.

All this and I have finally gotten a job offer. This, of course, is for a company I don't want to work for and a product I don't want to work on. Everything that I have actually wanted hasn't happened. So only what I haven't wanted. Left with the dregs. Left with what I know isn't right for me. Left with what I know if a gigantic step backwards for my career.

And I wouldn't really care so much if it just got me back to my home, back to my things, back to my cats, but of course, it doesn't. It means moving everything I own from the US back to Canada. No small feat, believe me. So something I don't want while doing something massive and requiring a lot of work.

I'm not happy.

I mean, I have no chance to being happy at this point. No chance at all. No chance thanks to all the stress, and the change. There's no chance I'm going to be anything but fucked. Fucked.

I was so fucked before. And now. If there ever were a time to step in front of a bus. I swear to god it's now.

I just fucking hate it here. I just fucking hate it everywhere.