Here We Go Again

Here We Go Again

I know the drill.

I know all of the answers to the questions I’m asking. First, I’m supposed to breathe to take care of my panic response. Then I’m supposed to remind myself that nothing has happened yet – there is a phone number to call to appeal my Medicaid denial. My old boss said she “doesn’t know” if they are going to need me in LA or not, and doesn’t know if they’re going to have live-in resident advisors this year. My insurance company also gave me a number to call, and I need to just call it. And I haven’t gotten my grades back yet – I don’t know how I’m doing in my classes just yet. This has just been a really rough week.

The problem is, none of that helps me with the anxiety.

This is what I used to refer to as “The Hours” with my old therapist – the time between now and when your problem gets resolved, one way or the other. It is Saturday night – while others are partying and relaxing, I’m worried about failing my program, losing the life I desperately want back, and worst of all, losing my kidney, and according to what my sister heard, potentially my life.

Let’s be real, though – how good was this life to begin with?

Look, here’s reality: if the worst happens, I’m free of it, because I’m dead. If I lose my life in the city I love, I just try to build a life in a city that I hate until I can get back to the one I want. I may lose the girl I like in the process, but who knows if that was ever going to go anywhere, really?

If it doesn’t go my way, I will suffer. A LOT. But my life thus far has been just about this endless suffering anyway.

Maybe we’re just not meant for happiness. Maybe all that happens is part of the grand design to bring his all to ruin for some reason. Or maybe there is no reason, and that’s why this is happening.

If that’s the case, I really would rather it just end. The torture is too much. It’s just too much.

In March of next year, I will be how old she was when she died. Let’s see where I am then.

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