Shot Through the Heart

…..and I’m to blame. Well, maybe not totally, but today our landlords said that Will and I need to be out of this house in 10 days. Right before Christmas. With no place to go, or even any prospect of a place to go.

Otherwise, they’re going to take us to court, and while that would definitely buy us some time, we can’t really afford to live here even without paying rent, so we’re going to end up in the same soup no matter what we do. Look, I get it: we are seriously in arrears, and they’ve got the right to move in people who’ll pay the rent they’re asking. We have some money coming, thanks to my friend in Maine along with some very generous people, so we can get a storage unit and rent a moving truck. There are also a couple of options if we need to give up the dog…..but I can’t help seeing the irony in the fact that we’re able to find the pets new homes, and yet no one will take us.

This is, of course, not helping my mood at all. It could have something to do with having missed my antidepressants for two days—I just discovered them stuck to the bottom of the pill compartments for Saturday and Sunday—but I don’t like the direction things are heading and I’m not sure what to do to make it better. It’s situational, which means it’s not amenable to med changes; but as recent events have proven, even situational depression can turn into ‘real’ depression. And yes, I’ve had some ugly thoughts today.

But I also realize that thoughts aren’t actions, and I don’t have to follow that rabbit down the hole again. My brain just can’t be allowed to shit the bed whenever it wants. There’s too much to do, too much to go through, too many concepts to absorb (like how we went from the best Christmas ever to a lightless, hopeless, joyless Christmas in the space of twelve short months). I keep trying to remember that Jesus, Mary and Joseph were homeless during the holidays too…..but for some reason it doesn’t comfort me as much as it should.

Maybe that’s because all of this misery can be laid right at my feet. After all, I’m the one who can’t cope with working and living like everyone else. I’m the one who’s dragging my sick husband through the mess I’ve made of things. It really doesn’t matter that I have an illness and it’s not my fault; it still feels like it, and I can’t escape the knowledge that if I hadn’t lost my job back in the spring of 2013, none of this might have happened. That was truly the turning point in my life, and it ruined me. I tried to get back to normal—whatever that is—and when I got the State job, I thought I’d made it.

To state the obvious, I didn’t. If I could have hung on, I’d probably be even crazier than I am now, but by God there’d be warmth and twinkle-lights and Christmas gifts and a roof over our heads this holiday season. As it is, we have no choice but to let our landlords take us to court, which is a shame because we’ve always gotten along well and I don’t want to be one of those rotten tenants who refuses to leave until the very last minute. (I’ve managed property before, and I always hated dealing with that kind.)

Sorry to be such a Debbie Downer today. I’ll try to do better tomorrow. And if I can find a single good thing to say about all of this, you’ll be the first to hear.







Published by bpnurse

I'm a retired registered nurse and writer who also happens to be street-rat crazy, if the DSM-IV.....oops, 5---is to be believed. I was diagnosed with bipolar I disorder at the age of 55, and am still sorting through the ashes of the flaming garbage pile that my life had become. Here, I'll share the lumps and bumps of a late-life journey toward sanity.... along with some rants, gripes, sour grapes and good old-fashioned whining from time to time. It's not easy being bipolar in a unipolar world; let's figure it out together.

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