Andare, Partire, Tornare


The root of all evil

Fighting really hard not to spiral down into a deep blue funk. The day was going pretty well, until I was sorting through my mail, saw a "fill out this form and get some financial planning" sheet, and sat down to fill it out. When I got to the part where it was asking how much I had saved for emergencies, and I started to write "thirty dollars," I had to stop.

I can get another job. It would be possible. It would also come close to eating me alive, I think, because my weekends would become nonexistant. It's not impossible - I'm sure if I had any immigrant forebearers or pioneer stock in the family tree, they'd laugh at the idea of me *not* getting an additional job. But I don't want to. I want Bemo to get a job. Or, shall I say, more of a job than the 14-20 hours he gets a week. At this point, any job will do, although for reasons pertaining to both his capabilities and the current job market, that's not exactly realistic. What I wish, truly, is that the radio station he currently works at would get off their asses and reorganize the hierarchy, and give Bemo his full-time position like they've said they would. If he made a measley 25K a year, matching me, things would be about a trillion times easier. I wouldn't be constantly fishing to pay the rent, much of the utilities, and my credit cards and student loans out of my own paycheck. He contributes where and when he can, but frequently it's not enough, and if I forget and spend a little extra on groceries, or get into one of my careless spells and demand to be taken out to Denny's for a burger, suddenly I'm right at the line where I'm praying for the next paycheck to come in. I'm not a great money manager. I'm better at it than Bemo is, but I am not good at it - and I fear that if I don't start getting good at it, things are going to be really, really bad further down the road.

These are the only times when even the shadow of the hint of the thought of divorce comes into my mind. Which just shows how utterly boondoggled I am by the whole mess - firstly, all other issues aside, divorcing wouldn't solve most of my monatary problems. It's just that my paycheck would only have to pay for myself. Secondly, I would be in all senses of the word casting him off to drown by himself, and because I love and need him, that's impossible for me to do.

Don't I sound all logical? In truth, I'm sitting here typing because I can't talk through the great ghastly lump in my throat. The heartbreak of all this comes in the simple fact that Bemo knows all of this. He knows that he's letting us down by not being able to find work. I can't fault him for not trying to find it - he sends out resumes by the cartload. But whether they're just not good enough, or because he's looking in the wrong places, or because he gives off some sort of 'I'm unemployable' vibe (caused by the manic depression? I don't know.) or because, as he occasionally says, God just hates him, he rarely gets interviews, let alone an actual job.

Compared to people in the third world, we're wealthy beyond imagining. But here in the US, in one of the wealthier parts of the country, we're dancing along the ragged edge of the poverty line, some months on one side, some months on the other. Occasionally, all our bills get paid off and we can frolic a little bit, but that's generally because some luck has come our way - extra working hours for Bemo, a third paycheck in a month, or some other windfall. I'm so worried about the future. I'm younger by eleven years. I still have time to get some savings together. But I'm scared stiff that he doesn't.

And today my mom asked me about babies again. Sure - a child is just what we need, because we'd be such good providers, don't you know.

God, what a farce this all is. I should imitate Dorothy L. Sayers, and create a character to endow with wealth and a luscious lifestyle. It would either make me miserable or cheer me up. Perhaps I should try it and find out which.

10:20 p.m. - 2002-04-12


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