i was going to write about how pissed off i get when people say “get over it”, as if that’s some kind of helpful advice instead of being aggressively dismissive. and how it’s like telling some who tripped not to fall. and then make some kind of vague threatening statement along the lines of “i’ll show *you* how to get over it”. but instead i’m going to talk about the awkward pause after people ask me what i do for a living.
this is a tough question for me because, well, for all intents and purposes, i don’t *do* anything. i don’t work, go to school, volunteer. i get money from the government and am applying to get more. i’m disabled, and honestly, i spend most of my time smoking pot and watching tv.
and you know what? with all my self-righteousness, even in an entry against/exploring/unearthing ableism, it still embarrasses me to admit that. i shouldn’t be allowed to do anything so luxurious with my time. just like i shouldn’t spend money on non-essentials because i’m on general assistance. these always seem related to me.
[quick note: we don’t know who’s writing this entry. i don’t why we’re saying that but some seem to think it’s important]
honestly, one of the reasons i think i am so uncomfortable around funcitonals (people who function in some traditional/tangible way), is that i don’t know how to explain my life to them. but maybe some of this is my upper-class background, telling me that what i do for a living largely defines me and should express my passions and intellect.
part of the problem is also explaining my disability. how am i disabled? i’m crazy. basically. i have really bad PTSD and i’m a multiple( personality). i go into an incapacitating panic when i have to do anything required. i have little kid parts come out and yell “bitch!” (at ourselves) and ones who just freeze and can’t respond. i am scared of basically everyone and make as little contact with the outside world as possible. i mean, that’s pretty crazy as the term goes.
either way, i don’t know how to tell people that i heal for a living. that the only 2 appointments i regularly have in a week are therapy and my support group (for multiples). that i don’t have to be awake at a certain time. that i don’t have to answer to anyone regularly (except the government, i guess). that i don’t do any of the things they consider tasks/chores/work except *very* occasional grocery shopping and rare showers and laundry.
and that even this is almost unbearable. this life, this endless vacation, is so freakin hard that i am regularly in crisis, even though there is nothing i have to *do*.
do? what do i do? well, i’m broken. and i’m trying to work on that.
do? i’m crazy for a living. the government pays me. i actually get a bonus if i’m *extra* crazy. so cross your fingers.
do? i am by default left largely outside of the capitalist system. so i guess i’m a revolutionary.
i’m a columnist/song writer/artist because hobbies automatically become careers if nothing else is there i guess.
do? i spend a lot of time dressing up barbies in scraps of fabric without sewing. and putting things on my ebay watchlist and then deleting them. and checking craigslist missed connections for something that looks like it might be me.
my boyfriend, mostly.
have you ever played this game katamari? that and run away from my panic. sometimes even both at the same time.
did i mention i smoke a lot of pot?
i just don’t have an easy way to talk about it. to tell people how i am disabled is so graphic and intimate. PTSD? i mean, why should i have to tell you that i was so severely traumatized that i now can’t function? i barely *know* you.
i don’t know. it’s tough. (blah blah blah complain complain. isn’t the whole point that my life isn’t remotely tough?)
what do i do? (sighs). i write entries that hopefully distract people enough so they don’t notice that i still don’t know how to answer this question.