not the same person I was two years ago.
I was on a road to doing something with myself. I believed in my writing. I believed in New York. I thought my job taking over so much of my thoughts was just temporary.
I had two parents.
The sickest irony of all is that my father and I rarely got along which I think makes it worse in the end. I don't suppose I really needed one of his girlfrieds coming up to me at the wake to tell me he loved me. I did, sometimes, especially via email the last few years, get to see the side of him that did love me.
Maybe this is why I've been particularly listless these past few weeks. I've lost track of what day it is because I didn't want to see what day was coming.
I came back here almost a year ago because I wanted to have a relationship with my mother, before it was too late with her, too. I should have been more specific -- I wanted a good relationship with my mother. I didn't want her calling me up at 8 am when I'm in pain, clinging to a cold, nauseous and depressed to threaten to hire men to throw out all of my things if I don't get all of my stuff packed up so they can install carpet on Saturday.
I am sick of watching thousands of dollars fly out the window for superficial improvements when the house, and our family, has genuine need of repair. Yes, her bedroom is purple now and her bathroom is gorgeous and the den is green and soon her house will have new carpet underfoot in every room.
As I've watched her pack up her hundreds of Hallmark ornaments, Created Memories albums and supplies, hundreds of Beanie Babies, dozens of collectors watches, bin after bin of baseball and basketball cards, and tons of Beatles crap -- my resentment about the thousands of dollars of debt hanging over my head from college has grown. Grants, thankfully, paid about 40%, I earned about 25% through work and the rest, about $25,000, was loans.
I realized, too, that I've done a lot with very little. I went to college and had my own apartment in San Francisco on $18,000 a year, before taxes. I lived in New York a year ago on about $2 more an hour than Dorothy earned when we were roommates in college (and her parents paid her college tuition and rent) -- nine years ago. From that perspective, I haven't done so badly.
I want nothing more than to start paying back my debts. The last time I tried, I just kept getting slammed with taxes and more expenses. I'm going to stop feeling guilty for only being able to do my best. I'm going to stop internalizing it when debtors call up and treat me like a criminal the first time I can't pay a bill after paying it consistently for a year.
I'm not trying to make excuses for my fucked up credit or for not finishing college. On the contrary, I thought coming here I'd be able to economize and make amends for my past mistakes. Instead, I've fallen deeper into debt and despair.
I've become angry, illogical and just not the person I wanted to become. More than once, I felt that I was possessed by my father. All I want now is my life back. It can't be what it was, but I want to get back on the road to what I wanted to be.
not the same person I was 