The Struggle is Real

So, poverty is the worst.
The whole idea behind the living stipend and the disallowance of a second income is so that VISTA members “understand what it’s really like” to live in poverty. But the thing is, there are different levels of poverty—or I guess, more accurately, there are different levels or factors that go into one’s class status.
First, there’s the obvious—capital. Of which I am severely lacking.
Then there is your social network—so much of the job market is focused on your network, and 70% of recent college grads get their first job through somebody they know. When you have a social deficiency, such as Asperger’s, this pretty severely affects your job prospects.
Finally, there’s education—technically, I’m privileged in this area, because not only am I intelligent, I also have a degree from a prestigious college (even if it hasn’t gotten me anywhere). But along those lines, I also have a staggering amount of student debt, to the tune of $70,000. I’m having to pretty seriously consider declaring Chapter 7 bankruptcy.

The system is rigged and it’s totally unfair. The wealthy stay wealthy by circulating themselves and their progeny through expensive, exclusive private academies, and they’re always well-connected. If someone from the lower echelons, such as myself, tries to rise above their lower class background, they are inundated with debt, and that’s even WITH extensive financial aid. I come from an armed services, blue-collar, lower middle/working class family, and I grew up in a single-parent, female-headed household. Because I lacked the capital to move to a different city directly after graduation, and because I was not able to intern for free or for peanuts, I had no relevant work experience in an economically depressed town that’s rapidly becoming known as “Little Detroit.” I was living in relative poverty because of my loan payments, despite the fact that I lived at home and did not have to pay for housing. I also was not eligible for any kind of assistance, so I racked up credit card debt by buying luxuries such as groceries and health care services. I worked 50+ hours a week, sometimes seven days a week, at a high-stress, low-paying job that took gross advantage of my naiveté. I saw VISTA as my out from an oppressive, unhealthy environment. Had I been forced to say, I can say with a degree of certainty that I would probably have attempted suicide, or at the very least, seriously contemplated it. I didn’t need therapy—I needed out of an incredibly detrimental situation.

Unsurprisingly, VISTA was and is not a cure-all. In some ways—really, in a lot of ways—I’m actually worse off. I make $800 a month, and have $75,000 in debt. My rent is $550, my car is $150, and my phone is $40. These expenses are my first priority, which leaves me a paltry $60 for every other expense. I get $200 in food stamps a month, which means I eat a lot of cereal and over processed foods. I also have past medical bills, current and future medical bills (being sick and poor is the worst), two cats, and the absolute worst luck with automobiles.

But we wouldn’t want me to have a second income—because however will I understand what it is like to struggle?

In Transition

New job, new town, new friends, new life.
I'm about three weeks in, and it feels in equal turns stagnant and a whirlwind.
I suppose I've traveled enough to know that a change in geography does not make your struggles disappear, though I will say that any place you exist in will shape and change you in some way.
This new life should be the opportunity for me to develop into the person I'm becoming, but I see myself falling into old habits that have a tendency to pull me in a direction antithetical to growth.
Basically, I lay in bed all day and eat candy and cope very poorly with change.

Part of it are the forces beyond my control--my finances, which are constant threat to my physical and mental well-being; my Autism, which acts as a barrier to the outside world; and my fibromyalgia, that leaves me in constant physical pain and mental anguish.
The Sucky-Ass Trifecta.

At the risk of sounding like the platform of the Republican Party, I'm trying this new thing where I take more personal responsibility for my state of being.
True, I have been dealt several shitty hands in life. (Seriously, fibro is the fucking worst.)
But if I just lay back (or, as is more often the case, lie down) and let the pain consume me, I'm going to suck as a human being.
The pain will likely always be a part of my life, but I have to turn that around and make that life worth living, otherwise, what is the fucking point of even being alive?

I know what I have to do in order to be well again (or even if I could just get to the point where I didn't actively have fantasies about getting hit by a train to be put out of my agonizing misery), but it is, and always will be, an uphill battle.

And I am just too tired for that anymore.
I have to consider, though, that most of life is an uphill battle.
Is that stupid?
Absolutely. Because everything should be unicorns and rainbows.
But I think keeping the fact that struggle is just a part of life is an important perspective to have, because if we didn't have mountains, we would never learn how to climb them.
We would be clueless and dumb and we'd probably die in a flood at the foot of the mountain.
(Sometimes I get a little too in depth with metaphors--#aspergersproblems.)

I used to kind of bank on the idea that I was getting all of the shitty parts of life out of the way, and age 40 and on would be smooth sailing.
Perhaps it's not so much that it gets easier; perhaps we just develop better coping mechanisms, have more resources at our disposal, and have more life experience, patience and wisdom.

I am always, always, always thinking about transitions and liminal spaces.
It's breathtaking how things develop, grow, and change--particularly people.
So here I am, in my groovy, transitional state, wondering and dreaming about the person I'm going to be in twenty years.
Because she is going to be a total badass.

Fuq Da System

I really need to figure out a way to get paid for writing my hilarious and (sometimes) poignant thoughts, because this nine-to-five barely-making-ends-meet bullshit is really getting to me.
Basically, ten hours of my day are monopolized by work--I wake up at 6, and don't get home until four. Then, if I don't want to be in constant, horrible pain, I have to go to the gym, which usually takes about two hours with the commute, cardio, swim and shower.
So we're down to twelve hours. Eight of which should be dedicated to sleep, because I am a crankypants when not well rested. So, four.
BUT WAIT. Social obligations! Domestic chores! Errands! An extra half hour of cardio because I'm feeling oddly motivated!
FAAAAAAAAHHK

Basically, I have no time for myself, and that is a problem.
Now, obviously, this is a problem for a lot of people.
Probably most Americans.
But in my case, the case of an Autistic, the lack of time and space to decompress is detrimental to my health and well-being.
Tony Attwood, one of the leading experts in the field of Autism Spectrum Conditions, states that for every hour of social obligation, an Autistic needs an hour of alone or quiet time. Work is an obligation--a highly social one, at that. So basically, if I'm working eight hours, I need eight hours to chill the fuck out and calm down or my mental and emotional health will suffer.

Which it does, greatly.

I've been blogging for the past three years about how hopeless and stuck I feel, because I lack the resources (not to mention the energy) to get myself out.
People have said to me, "Just put yourself out there, something is sure to come along. You don't know if you don't try."
And it's not like they're wrong, necessarily--and generally, their advice is well-meaning.
But telling me to go out and just get a job is like handing me a water bottle and pencil and telling me to build a bird's nest.
I don't have the right tools, and I don't have a manual.

And it's not only my social difficulties--last year, I made just around $20,000. Poverty level.
My loans currently amount to about $80,000.
If I want to escape this crushing burden, I have to move to a place with better entry-level prospects.
In order to move, you have to have capital.
See the issue?

And even as economically oppressed and depressed as I feel, it doesn't even come close to what it must be living life without all the privileges I've been afforded--a mother who engaged me as I developed, who imbued me with a love for books and learning, who, at her own financial peril, co-signed several student loans, without which I would never have attended the institution I did.

There's this VISTA position I'd really love to take, but will probably be financially incapable of doing so because I can't catch a break with these goddamn loan servicers. I can't get an entry-level position in my field because entry-level positions require experience, usually in the form of unpaid labor or internships.

I am all for volunteerism, but the way unpaid labor is exploited in this country is sickening. As a high schooler, if I wanted to go out and do things with friends, or buy clothes, or do anything extra curricular, I had to pay for it myself. Obviously, my mom helped, and it's not like we were desperate for essential items, but what most middle class kids took for granted, I had to work for. I didn't have time to engage in unpaid labor or volunteer--I was busy trying to make it in the world, and I started work at the age of thirteen.

Even in college, I didn't do internships--something I sincerely regret, and something that's totally bitten me in the ass down the road. I didn't engage in unpaid (or low-paying) labor because I was trying to make ends meet in college. The extra expenses add up, even the non-frivolous ones, like health care and vehicle maintenance. Sure, there are paid internships, but most of those would have involved being not in Erie and living in a bigger city, with higher food costs.

Basically, I'm pissed that the system has set me up to fail. I'm pissed that despite all my hard work in education and the workforce basically means shit, because I'm stuck at a low paying job in an economically depressed town because I didn't have the privilege of being able to work for free--I needed money to survive.

And yet, I'm drowning. Still.

Spiders Are Scary, Autism is Not

[NOTE: Sometimes, Allie Brosh drawings encapsulate my emotional states better than any words in the English language. They are used profusely throughout this post.]

I spent a good deal of today feeling like this:

[Fig. A: 90% of my existence]

I feel like this on a fairly regular basis, because as an Autistic, I have to regulate and monitor my environment as best I can, because unwanted stimuli can emotionally incapacitate me for days. Literally, days.

[Fig. B: DAYS.]

Even so, I wouldn't change my neuro individuality. I'm kind of adorable, and way more funny than most people. So it's kind of upsetting when the topic of Autism is broached when I'm out to dinner with family members, and one of them remarks about how "scary" it is that they're estimating one in eight children is being diagnosed with some form of ASD.
First of all, that is YOUR fault for your continued insistence on procreating with us.
Y'all replicating our genes 'n shit.
Second, diagnosis is more prevalent because of increased awareness and education.
People are actually understanding that it's a thing, slowly but surely.
Third--"Scary?" Really?

Here is scary:

[Fig. C: Scary]

And you know? I originally Googled "scary spiders," but I was actually SO SCARED by the images yielded by that search, that I had to use this.

Other than spiders, do you know what's really scary?
The fact that someone that's known me and loved me since birth thinks I'm scary.
And I understand she's not literally afraid of me, she just doesn't understand Autism as a spectrum.
She's met a more severely affected Autistic, and made a snap judgement based on one interaction that he "cannot connect" because he didn't make eye contact and "looked right through" a person he just met.
It's scary that she can't see all the good a person with ASD possesses, because she can't see beyond what she perceives as disability.
Scariest, in my option, is that I feel unable to communicate this to her, because we don't speak the same language.
When strangers are ableist or uncommunicative or just don't get it, it's difficult, even disheartening.
But when it's someone who you love, and who loves you, it messes with your sense of identity.

[Fig. D: Existentialism]

When someone you love doesn't understand or can't acknowledge a part of you, it really messes with you emotionally, mentally, even physically--especially if, like most females on the spectrum, you have an autoimmune disorder or fibromyalgia.

It's scary, because if loved ones don't acknowledge who you are, how do you find your place in the world? I suppose you find your way eventually, and I'm sure I'll find mine one of these days (complete with epiphany and overture and montages, probably). But right now, it's incredibly lonely. And scary.

[Fig. E: Rly Tho]

For Brendon

When something like this happens, you think the world should stop.
That when something this senseless and terrible happens, that everyone should drop everything, that they should share in your grief, in your sadness.
If you can't go on, it means everyone else shouldn't, too.
Because someone you love is gone, a part of you is missing forever, and there is a hole in the world.
Nothing will ever be the same.
You're stagnant.
Yet, the world doesn't stop.
People go on, blind to your pain.
Ignorant of the suffering.
Unaware of the hole.

I was Googling "suicide statistics of chronic pain sufferers" when I overheard my mother mention funeral preparations.
I had come home early from work sick--the entirety of my lunch lost to the side effects of the drugs meant to lessen my physical pain.
Grandpa, I thought.
How would I approach this?
Grief doesn't confuse me, it's people--reactions are so different, and I am always unsure.
To touch, to keep a distance, to embrace, and for how long--these are hard questions to ask of the bereaved.
I stood in the doorway, waiting for her to turn around, to react.
Blankness.
This happens, sometimes. Shock. I think I understand, and I move to embrace her.
"Uncle Paul called. Brendan shot himself this morning. His mother found him."

Nothing in life can prepare you for these things, not even previous experience.
Not an uncle, not a father.
Each time it's different; each time, you're different.
He was seventeen, and this shouldn't have happened.
We grew up in separate states, and lived separate lives, but he was my blood.
When life is taken away before it begins, it makes you think.
Makes you put things into perspective.

Brendan, you probably didn't know I loved you.
You probably didn't know that I, too, struggle with life.
Maybe if you had, things would be different.
I'm sorry for your hurt.
I'm sorry you thought it would never end.
I'm sorry for everything you'll never be, but I loved you for everything you were.
I'll always remember the time you chased me around the house with Sock Em Bop Ems;
The time you got embarrassed for getting caught peeing in our back yard;
Always finding "Brandon" instead of "Brendon" on ornaments at Bronner's;
Your shenanigans and exploits as "Mr. Ass" at the Detroit Zoo.

I don't know how I'll face our family; your mom, you dad, your sister.
I don't know how I'll face seeing you again, one last time.
I don't know how I'll go on living, once the world starts up for me again.
I'd like to think I'll do something noble, like preventing this from ever happening again.
But I just don't know.
I'll miss you, Brendan.
And every time I see a "Brandon" ornament--I'll think of you.
Rest easy, cousin.

tired and sick

I was a sad sack of shit this weekend.
With every passing hour, and every passing Game of Thrones episode, I'd tell myself, Okay, self, I'll let you slide on this one, but we're getting up and doing things after it's over.
And I just didn't.
The most I accomplished this entire weekend was the French Onion soup I made yesterday, after finally getting out of bed at 2 PM.
So I thought to myself, Okay, sad sack, today you were sad, tomorrow you'll be okay.
And I just wasn't.

Depression runs in my family, so I suppose it shouldn't be much of a surprise that I experience it.
But really, I think it's more than that.
I'm terrified.
I'm overwhelmed.
I hurt all the time.
I can't sleep, but when I do, it feels like it's my only respite.
Respites, though, should not include terrifying and disturbing dreams.

And you know, even as I write this, even considering how LONG it took me to write this, part of me feels like I'm overreacting.
Because, you know, I've been taught that to feel "too much" is just too much and I really ought to dial it back.

The biggest issue, I think, is that I no longer feel like I can live in the world.
Or more accurately, I feel like I never have, and I never will.
And don't confuse that with a desire to "check out," because that's the farthest from the truth.
The simple reality is that I just don't know how.
I don't know how to live in a world where people lie to get ahead;
where people steal so they can get by;
where people kill because of something dark within themselves;
where people can rape with impunity;
where people can just be shitty for no reason and just fuck with people's lives.
As terrible as it sounds, especially for someone who claims to be social justice-minded and political, I can't read or watch the news anymore. Just can't. I don't seem to have that ability that others have of separating themselves from what's happening around them.
I feel everything.
I can't not.
Which is really the funny thing about an Asperger's diagnosis, because the Powers That Be believe it's just the opposite.
They know nothing.

So I got kind of off track with this, as per usual, but I guess the basic thesis of this post is that everything is shitty, and I feel totally powerless and helpless to stop it.
I don't want to die, but I don't know how to live.

I feel as though this is my gift and my curse, this Autism Spectrum Condition, because on the one hand it opens me up to all the feels and the suffering and the human condition, but on the other hand, it opens me up to all the feels and the suffering and the human condition, and I haven't a clue on what to do about it, other than lay on the couch and stare in abject silence, or write about it, and hope that somewhere, sometime, some day, there will be people that I can touch, that I can save, that I can bring back from the brink of misery and self-destruction that I always seem to precariously tread upon.

sadpants

So I got a job, finally (which is not the sadpants part).
And aside from telling everyone and also the whole world, I texted Boy (Formerly) at Work, because he'd been the first person I'd discussed getting a non-Heatron job with (and he disclosed right back that he was also searching cause this place was like a less funny version of The Office).
Didn't occur to me that texting would be in any way inappropriate, as it was my understanding that we were friends. Maybe not best friends or super bros, but we conversed regularly, and he always liked my dorky t shirts.
And he kind of restored my faith in the goodness of the male gender, which sounds a little moony schoolgirly, and kind of is I suppose, but bottom line, I legitimately thought we were friends.
So I sent him, verbatim, "I got a job!!"
A few minutes later, I get a text from an unknown number with a "Who is this?"

(Sidenote: I really wanted to reply with Mushu's intro speech from Mulan: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zn_nM7x7Lcw)

And I was like, you texted me, who are you?
Reply: "Boy at Work's girlfriend, Fleurgenstein. Just curious why you were texting him."

Ummmmmmmmmmmmm.
Cause I got a job, and was indicating as such?
And furthermore, how the hell did you get my number?

But see, that's usually not how my brain works, so I replied right away with a "Oh, hi. We used to work together, and I was just letting him know that I got a different job, finally."

-____________-

So that was a really weird violation of my privacy, and probably his too, though I guess that's not really my business.
I don't know if he even got the message, and I don't plan on communicating with him via text ever because I don't know if it'll be him I'm talking to or Violation-of-Privacypants.
I'd friend requested him on Facebook a couple weeks back, and I know he's not on it often, but I checked today, and he ignored the request.
If he didn't want to be friends, that's fine, but I feel like I was given every indication that we WERE friends, until pretty much now.
And I don't know if I did something inappropriate or wrong--fairly certain I did not, but as it is difficult for me to navigate social protocols, it's always a possibility.
My hunch is that girlfriend doesn't like me, or I suppose more specifically, doesn't like that I am a girl (we've had a couple run-ins that were kind of awkward).
And you know? If you can't be friends with females whilst in a relationship, that is just sad.
In the end, it's really his loss, because I'm awesome, and you would have to be a dummy to abscond my friendship based on my reproductive organs.
I am still kind of sad though, because I get sad when I can't understand things, or when people ignore or avoid me instead of explaining things.