Money
Some days, I get to feeling like a complete waste of space, as I'm sure many people do. The sad part is that usually this mood happens anytime my mind decides to dwell anywhere near my financial situation. Whenever I think about money--earning it, spending it, saving it, whatever--I kind of feel like puking and then dying. This is mainly because I've never bought into the idea that you have to sell your soul and work for some shitty company or another in order to get by. I've always figured that once I found what I wanted to do in life and found some people who were willing to pay me for it, I'd be set and I wouldn't have to worry about bills. At least, not as much as when I'm working retail, that is.
The problem is: writing does the exact opposite of that theory. Sure, I'm happier and healthier than when I work soul-stealing jobs; but I'm much poorer. I can barely pay bills, much less feed myself. And the fact that I'm seriously looking into moving out from under my aunt's roof and actually paying rent, for once, really causes a big dilemma for me.
I think it's ridiculous that I could search for months on end for a job that I could possibly...maybe...put up with and that pays decently...only to end up with some waitressing or retail job, again. It's impossible to find work that I can actually support myself with...unless I decided to get a collection of soul-stealing, depression-inducing, fuck-my-life-I'm-out kind of jobs. Just thinking of getting a supplemental job with my writing causes me to go into fits of anxiety. I don't want to go back into that area of life where I'm always exhausted and have no say about my personal schedule. If I'm going to get up at 6am every day for a job, it's going to be something I'm damn passionate about.
Why is that such a crazy idea, anymore, though? I feel ridiculous for being upset by that. I can feel the internal fingers being pointed at me saying that I'm just lazy or that my passions will never fit any job because, once more, I'm lazy; and then there's that tiny finger telling me that, even if I did find that right job, I wouldn't succeed in it because the market's too competitive and I suck too much to even think I could be in the running. Blegh.
I know I'm whining, but seriously. Why is life such a fight? I thought it would plateau at some point and I would maybe even get bored or something, but no. In the back of my mind, I constantly have all these heavy unanswered questions screaming at me, clawing for air because I'm too scared to let them breathe even for an instant. My life is so full...so why is money such an issue? Why can't that fullness translate into life? How is it that I can have so much love and happiness in every other aspect of my life; but whenever I go home alone, I face that big black hole that is my bills and student loans and future bills and the need to get out on my own and feed myself? It's inescapable, and it's overwhelming me tonight.
The problem is: writing does the exact opposite of that theory. Sure, I'm happier and healthier than when I work soul-stealing jobs; but I'm much poorer. I can barely pay bills, much less feed myself. And the fact that I'm seriously looking into moving out from under my aunt's roof and actually paying rent, for once, really causes a big dilemma for me.
I think it's ridiculous that I could search for months on end for a job that I could possibly...maybe...put up with and that pays decently...only to end up with some waitressing or retail job, again. It's impossible to find work that I can actually support myself with...unless I decided to get a collection of soul-stealing, depression-inducing, fuck-my-life-I'm-out kind of jobs. Just thinking of getting a supplemental job with my writing causes me to go into fits of anxiety. I don't want to go back into that area of life where I'm always exhausted and have no say about my personal schedule. If I'm going to get up at 6am every day for a job, it's going to be something I'm damn passionate about.
Why is that such a crazy idea, anymore, though? I feel ridiculous for being upset by that. I can feel the internal fingers being pointed at me saying that I'm just lazy or that my passions will never fit any job because, once more, I'm lazy; and then there's that tiny finger telling me that, even if I did find that right job, I wouldn't succeed in it because the market's too competitive and I suck too much to even think I could be in the running. Blegh.
I know I'm whining, but seriously. Why is life such a fight? I thought it would plateau at some point and I would maybe even get bored or something, but no. In the back of my mind, I constantly have all these heavy unanswered questions screaming at me, clawing for air because I'm too scared to let them breathe even for an instant. My life is so full...so why is money such an issue? Why can't that fullness translate into life? How is it that I can have so much love and happiness in every other aspect of my life; but whenever I go home alone, I face that big black hole that is my bills and student loans and future bills and the need to get out on my own and feed myself? It's inescapable, and it's overwhelming me tonight.
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