10:53 p.m. - 2018-08-16
A tiny at-home job is mine. It's for my dad's sort of girlfriend, I don't know, he texted me about it, and she's going to provide the sewing machine, and it's sewing hems on the edge of baby blankets so I shouldn't fuck it up too much.. although I havent actually sewn anything in.. decades. Maybe ever. Memories are fuzzy, and I might have just dreamed it.
Dad doesn't approve of the delivery jobs because of the wear and tear on the car and how I need to make "at least $500 + gas costs in order to make it worthwhile" ....so much for that idea.
I'm afraid to tell him I just want a legit job because I'm fucking terrified that housing is going to kick me out of the apartment, because on paper it just looks like I'm not working, there was nowhere for me to put that I'm chronically ill.
I dont qualify for Disability because I don't have a fucking official diagnosis. And even if I did, I have heard (in the foodbank line ups) that it would take me being incapacitated (read: bedridden) for at least 50% of the time to qualify for any Disability benefits. Basically. now I'm not sick enough.
So my anxiety is not any better, is what I'm trying to fucking spit out here.
Maybe this will just be the new normal. I'll keep applying and failing and conveniently having the answers that the housing people want for the month or two that they want them, just to keep scraping by.
I'm trying to be positive and meditate and breathe. Concentrate on the good things right. I am getting better every day.
Yeah, thanks anxiety, for looping that happy thought right back around.