So, I started seeing a therapist.
It’s helping a little, but there is still quite a large part of me that looks long and hard at my life—at where I am at my age (28) and thinks of what a complete failure I am as an adult. I can’t help it. Yes, there are people who love me. Yes, I am receiving support that a majority of unemployed people my age aren’t getting. My parents are supporting me. I should consider myself lucky. I should feel a measure of happiness.
All I can feel is empty. Like I shouldn’t be here. I’m a mooch. I can’t get work because this headache (I still have a headache after that concussion in January) and the severe depression make it difficult for me to get out of bed each morning. It probably sounds like an excuse to some people. In fact, after reading comments on articles written by people who still live with their parents, I feel like I am one of those people. A drain. I don’t contribute, so I have no worth.
And so returns that old friend, Self Loathing. The oily sludge that slithers across the back of my neck and digs it’s thin tentacles beneath my skin to take hold. To remain close and whisper horrible things to me. “You’re just a waste. Things would be better for everyone if you would just go away. Does anyone even really need you?”
For a disgusting sludge monster, Self Loathing certainly has a seductive voice.
It’s going to be hard to pry Self Loathing loose. Its hold is deep and I’m weak. Sometimes, most of the time, my weakness worries me.
I’ve tried to apply for disability. I don’t qualify. I’ve tried to apply for Medicaid. I don’t qualify (I would if I had a child). Seeing those rejection letters… To put it in a succinct version of their terms, I do not make enough money for them to help me. I am too poor for financial aid. I am too poor in general.
And so I live with my parents. I go to therapy every week any pay for my appointments out of my parents’ pocket.
And Self Loathing twines its cold, greasy tentacles further beneath my skin and squeezes my spine. “Just do it, Jenn. You’ll save a lot of people a lot of financial trouble. Sure, they’ll mourn you—but will you really care? It’s not like you’ll be around to see it.”
God, I need to talk to my therapist.