There's nothing like a good Morrissey lyric when you want to convey internal drama.
Lately I've been constantly reminded of just how far beyond my means I live here. New York bleeding me dry and making me feel like a failure most of the time in this blog profile is no joke. Within the last few weeks that feeling has only increased ten-fold.
As I've written about before, I made a choice to live in New York. And despite any unpleasantness that I've come to associate with the price of living here, it may be the best choice I've ever made for myself. Now, and perhaps for the first time seriously, I'm questioning if I should stay here.
I still love it. I love Brooklyn. I love the shops and restaurants in my neighborhood. I love the walking. I hate that my paycheck can barely cover my bills. I hate that despite my efforts and mad budgeting to get my debt in check, I'm constantly throwing away money on Chase bank fees because I just couldn't quite make the money work again this month. Because, no matter what I do, I find myself in the red.
I know that it probably sounds like a simple solution -- spend less money. And let me tell you that I've done that. I can actually live on an obscenely small amount of money between pay checks, particularly if there's already food in the house. I've eaten boxed macaroni and cheese and locked myself in my apartment on the weekends. I've done almost everything I can think of. But I can't get caught up, let alone ahead. I've borrowed money from my generous father ad nauseum that gets recorded in a little notebook in his desk. He loves that notebook. I want to set it on fire.
I'm older and wiser now, enough to know that this cycle of debt can't go on forever. At some point - possibly in the next few months - I will need to say, okay, New York, you've broken me. I can't do this anymore. If I don't stop myself I don't know what will happen. It may be me in a rubber room. That sounds entirely feasible.
And then, what?, I just suck it up and... go? Just like that? I just move. Away from New York. My home. For as much as I've talked about it, I can't ACTUALLY imagine not living here anymore. This place that I love to hate. Oh, how that phrase resonates in every area of my life.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
what today is vs. what today could be
I think long term. I'm not so much a planner, though, as a wonderer. Planning I kinda suck at. I wonder what my life would be like, could be like, if I go one way as opposed to the other. This is normal, yes?
Six years ago, I made a choice to live in New York. I probably could have gone anywhere else, including back home to Pennsylvania, but at the time New York was the only place I could be. It was more than the only place that I wanted to be, it was just it. Not including my very brief stint considering graduate school for teaching theatre, I didn't even consider living anywhere else. Why would I? My boyfriend was here, and we had decided to move in together, and DUH! it was New York! Everything, and everyone, I wanted was here. And I was very happy. I was going to get a job in Manhattan! Where I would dress smartly and I would have books - oodles of them! - and read New York Magazine.
I did a lot of those things for a while, particularly the being happy part. That may have been my favorite.
Now I'm 28, going on 58 as my brother says, and I've settled into a comforting routine of daily life. I get up, go to work, do work, come home, eat dinner, watch TV and go to sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat. My life isn't all that different from anyone else's living anywhere else. Last night I was at dinner with Stone Cold Steve Austin (yes and yes) and he asked me what I do here on the weekends. New York isn't that different from any other city. I go to Target. I go to the movies. I occasionally go out to dinner with friends. And I like it that way. Sometimes I indulge in a Broadway show (I was grateful to attend "Last Fall" last Friday with my good friend and it was phenomenal) or shopping in a non-Target store, but I wander around my neighborhood aimlessly or planet myself on the couch to watch DVDs, too.
I have two stepbrothers who are both younger by a few years who own property or on their way to doing so. I cannot compare myself to them in most ways (I want to save the trees while one cuts them down), but I do have this idea in my head that despite being younger, they are more grown up than I because they own things. Cars, homes, dogs. But I don't own these things because I chose to live here, and they chose to be in Pennsylvania. Choosing to live in New York City usually means choosing to put typical adult things like buying a home on hold - either until you make six figures and maintain that, or until you leave.
I used to say that if I moved back home after college or since that I have a good idea who I would marry. It's based on very little evidence, of course. It's not my high school math teacher, sadly, although I probably would have tried to date him when I became a reasonable age to do so. I have this picture in my head of what my life could be, and it seems relatively pleasant from the outside. Then I try to reconcile that life with my current one - which I happen to really like day-to-day - and I just get confused.
I like to think about these alterna-lives, but I don't want them. Like is even a strong word. I am intrigued by them. Owning a home and having a baby and picking out paint colors intrigues me. But if I had all of those things, I wouldn't have had dinner with Steve Austin last night. And that was super.
Six years ago, I made a choice to live in New York. I probably could have gone anywhere else, including back home to Pennsylvania, but at the time New York was the only place I could be. It was more than the only place that I wanted to be, it was just it. Not including my very brief stint considering graduate school for teaching theatre, I didn't even consider living anywhere else. Why would I? My boyfriend was here, and we had decided to move in together, and DUH! it was New York! Everything, and everyone, I wanted was here. And I was very happy. I was going to get a job in Manhattan! Where I would dress smartly and I would have books - oodles of them! - and read New York Magazine.
I did a lot of those things for a while, particularly the being happy part. That may have been my favorite.
Now I'm 28, going on 58 as my brother says, and I've settled into a comforting routine of daily life. I get up, go to work, do work, come home, eat dinner, watch TV and go to sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat. My life isn't all that different from anyone else's living anywhere else. Last night I was at dinner with Stone Cold Steve Austin (yes and yes) and he asked me what I do here on the weekends. New York isn't that different from any other city. I go to Target. I go to the movies. I occasionally go out to dinner with friends. And I like it that way. Sometimes I indulge in a Broadway show (I was grateful to attend "Last Fall" last Friday with my good friend and it was phenomenal) or shopping in a non-Target store, but I wander around my neighborhood aimlessly or planet myself on the couch to watch DVDs, too.
I have two stepbrothers who are both younger by a few years who own property or on their way to doing so. I cannot compare myself to them in most ways (I want to save the trees while one cuts them down), but I do have this idea in my head that despite being younger, they are more grown up than I because they own things. Cars, homes, dogs. But I don't own these things because I chose to live here, and they chose to be in Pennsylvania. Choosing to live in New York City usually means choosing to put typical adult things like buying a home on hold - either until you make six figures and maintain that, or until you leave.
I used to say that if I moved back home after college or since that I have a good idea who I would marry. It's based on very little evidence, of course. It's not my high school math teacher, sadly, although I probably would have tried to date him when I became a reasonable age to do so. I have this picture in my head of what my life could be, and it seems relatively pleasant from the outside. Then I try to reconcile that life with my current one - which I happen to really like day-to-day - and I just get confused.
I like to think about these alterna-lives, but I don't want them. Like is even a strong word. I am intrigued by them. Owning a home and having a baby and picking out paint colors intrigues me. But if I had all of those things, I wouldn't have had dinner with Steve Austin last night. And that was super.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Apartment rant #476
Remember that great apartment I introduced you to last June? Well, it's been the bane of my existence pretty much since then (remember the ConEd incident?). We had the wall issue. Then came the hot water issue. And the, "oh, you see that thing that looks like a flaccid penis on my roommate's wall? Yeah, that's water damage that came from the balcony of the apartment upstairs (seriously?) after three plus days of rain" issue. Oh, and our intercom hasn't worked in nine months. How long have we been living there? That's right, NINE MONTHS.
The latest development, a little more than a week ago, was that the building made the decision to cut our 24-hour doorman service effective March 1 (we got the letter on the Friday previous). About 25-30 or so of us tenants met that Sunday morning to discuss what we could do about it. Negotiate an evening-only doorman deal? Slash our rent to compensate for a lost service? All die a bullet-riddled death in our neighborhood and hope our remaining loved ones sue later? Two lawyers in the building spearheaded the efforts and did all of the attorney stuff like look up precedent and other things I completely don't understand. At the end of the meeting (where I talked more than was reasonable considering my complete lack of knowledge on the law), we all signed a letter stating that we feel this is an important safety issue (since we live on the cusp of a less desirable neighborhood where there often police cars and other indications of illegal activity), and part of our rent goes to such amenities as these. Additionally, we all decided to hold off on paying our rent until Friday the 5th to see if our letter held any weight with them.
It did. Sort of. The two attorneys then met with the head of the management company for our building (a man who, despite my many efforts to speak to him on a variety of issues regarding the hell suck that we live in, has never once been "available" to take my calls) who said, essentially, that the recession has really hit them hard. No kidding? That's strange, because we pay more than THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS in rent to you every month, and there are more than 50 units in our building. Eff you. Rae's dad suggested that we write a letter saying that we've also been affected by the recession and are no longer able to pay our rent, and we hope this isn't an inconvenience. I liked that.
However, due to their economic issues aplenty, the manager suggested to lawyer dude that he could offer an early-out option on our leases, should we want to leave. I read this in an email while in a cab and I nearly jumped out of my seat. IT'S A DREAM COME TRUE! The management company believes that all of the tenants received STEEP discounts on our rentals (um, no) and could easily fill the apartments for more than we all pay. So, please, leave. Gladly. And, I might add, you're seriously delusional.
Now, the fam and I discussed this and decided to pursue this option with near-glee. Yesterday I spoke to not-the-manager of the building to ask for this early-out option in writing, as my roommates and I would like to get the eff out of that building. Relatively pleasant, she said that she actually had our lease renewal option in a stack of papers and would remove ours so that she could sign a letter for us stating that we could leave without penalty. Then I skipped away.
This morning, however, we DID receive our lease renewal option paperwork. And they're raising the rent by more than $250, and requesting additional security. Which is HYSTERICAL.
So, to them, I say peace out and I hope you will enjoy my scathing review of your management company and your building when I move out and post it on yelp.com.
The latest development, a little more than a week ago, was that the building made the decision to cut our 24-hour doorman service effective March 1 (we got the letter on the Friday previous). About 25-30 or so of us tenants met that Sunday morning to discuss what we could do about it. Negotiate an evening-only doorman deal? Slash our rent to compensate for a lost service? All die a bullet-riddled death in our neighborhood and hope our remaining loved ones sue later? Two lawyers in the building spearheaded the efforts and did all of the attorney stuff like look up precedent and other things I completely don't understand. At the end of the meeting (where I talked more than was reasonable considering my complete lack of knowledge on the law), we all signed a letter stating that we feel this is an important safety issue (since we live on the cusp of a less desirable neighborhood where there often police cars and other indications of illegal activity), and part of our rent goes to such amenities as these. Additionally, we all decided to hold off on paying our rent until Friday the 5th to see if our letter held any weight with them.
It did. Sort of. The two attorneys then met with the head of the management company for our building (a man who, despite my many efforts to speak to him on a variety of issues regarding the hell suck that we live in, has never once been "available" to take my calls) who said, essentially, that the recession has really hit them hard. No kidding? That's strange, because we pay more than THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS in rent to you every month, and there are more than 50 units in our building. Eff you. Rae's dad suggested that we write a letter saying that we've also been affected by the recession and are no longer able to pay our rent, and we hope this isn't an inconvenience. I liked that.
However, due to their economic issues aplenty, the manager suggested to lawyer dude that he could offer an early-out option on our leases, should we want to leave. I read this in an email while in a cab and I nearly jumped out of my seat. IT'S A DREAM COME TRUE! The management company believes that all of the tenants received STEEP discounts on our rentals (um, no) and could easily fill the apartments for more than we all pay. So, please, leave. Gladly. And, I might add, you're seriously delusional.
Now, the fam and I discussed this and decided to pursue this option with near-glee. Yesterday I spoke to not-the-manager of the building to ask for this early-out option in writing, as my roommates and I would like to get the eff out of that building. Relatively pleasant, she said that she actually had our lease renewal option in a stack of papers and would remove ours so that she could sign a letter for us stating that we could leave without penalty. Then I skipped away.
This morning, however, we DID receive our lease renewal option paperwork. And they're raising the rent by more than $250, and requesting additional security. Which is HYSTERICAL.
So, to them, I say peace out and I hope you will enjoy my scathing review of your management company and your building when I move out and post it on yelp.com.
Monday, March 1, 2010
pregnancy non-scare
At some point in the last six years, my life went in an unexpected direction. No, it wasn't when I decided I wanted to date women. It wasn't even when I fell in love with Rachel. Although these things were pretty unexpected. The defining moment of my adulthood, to date, has been the moment I decided I wanted to be a mom. Intensely wanted. Wanted soon. And then, wanted immediately.
Less than an hour ago I found out via Facebook (and, honestly, how do I find out anything any other way? I don't because I am dreadful at keeping in touch with people) that one of my best friends from high school is pregnant with a little girl. I was immediately ecstatic for her and her husband. I'm sure she's more than a little scared, but I know she will be a phenomenal mother. And then, as has been the case so many times before, I look at myself and wonder why it couldn't be me, too. Another one of my close friends from high school recently gave birth to her second child. She has a beautiful family. If I could I would send her baby gifts every week.
When I was in high school, I know that I thought I would be one of the first to be married, to have a child. At that time, 25 seemed elderly and my back would be creaking just chasing the little ones around the backyard.
When I turned 23, I had an irrational fear of becoming pregnant. Every woman on my mother's side of the family had had a child by the age of 23, and I thought I was "doomed" to become a young mother as well. At the time, even though I was in a healthy committed relationship with someone whom I wanted to marry and would have liked to go on and have a child with, a pregnancy felt like it would have been the end of the world. Of my world. I was financially unprepared and emotionally irresponsible. I was 23 for goodness sake. I spent a good deal of 2005 abstaining from sex with my boyfriend (much to his dismay) because I was terrified of becoming pregnant. And I like sex.
Five years later, I'm still financially unprepared and emotionally irresponsible (albeit less so), sometimes all I can think about is wanting a baby. My roommate and I will ogle babies on TV and snuggle up against baby blankets and swoon and discuss names. And then remind ourselves that most of our "good eggs" are probably gone and we could very likely just be ogling other people's babies forever. Because like can sort of suck that way when you're 30 (or rapidly approaching it).
And the thing is that I like my life right now. I don't really want to change it in a way that would be conducive to having a baby right this second. I can't seem to strike a balance with what I like about my life right now and what I think my "goals" are. Suffering through an agonizing labor is a goal, right?
Less than an hour ago I found out via Facebook (and, honestly, how do I find out anything any other way? I don't because I am dreadful at keeping in touch with people) that one of my best friends from high school is pregnant with a little girl. I was immediately ecstatic for her and her husband. I'm sure she's more than a little scared, but I know she will be a phenomenal mother. And then, as has been the case so many times before, I look at myself and wonder why it couldn't be me, too. Another one of my close friends from high school recently gave birth to her second child. She has a beautiful family. If I could I would send her baby gifts every week.
When I was in high school, I know that I thought I would be one of the first to be married, to have a child. At that time, 25 seemed elderly and my back would be creaking just chasing the little ones around the backyard.
When I turned 23, I had an irrational fear of becoming pregnant. Every woman on my mother's side of the family had had a child by the age of 23, and I thought I was "doomed" to become a young mother as well. At the time, even though I was in a healthy committed relationship with someone whom I wanted to marry and would have liked to go on and have a child with, a pregnancy felt like it would have been the end of the world. Of my world. I was financially unprepared and emotionally irresponsible. I was 23 for goodness sake. I spent a good deal of 2005 abstaining from sex with my boyfriend (much to his dismay) because I was terrified of becoming pregnant. And I like sex.
Five years later, I'm still financially unprepared and emotionally irresponsible (albeit less so), sometimes all I can think about is wanting a baby. My roommate and I will ogle babies on TV and snuggle up against baby blankets and swoon and discuss names. And then remind ourselves that most of our "good eggs" are probably gone and we could very likely just be ogling other people's babies forever. Because like can sort of suck that way when you're 30 (or rapidly approaching it).
And the thing is that I like my life right now. I don't really want to change it in a way that would be conducive to having a baby right this second. I can't seem to strike a balance with what I like about my life right now and what I think my "goals" are. Suffering through an agonizing labor is a goal, right?
Thursday, February 25, 2010
When all you want is cookies
It wasn't a New Years resolution per se, but I've been gearing myself up to get serious (again) about weight loss since the middle or so of January. I have 30 pounds to lose and I am really going to make it happen this time.
Since I've spent six weeks exercising more regularly than I probably ever have, I'm actually beginning to enjoy it more. I could certainly do without the ridiculous amount of sweat pouring off of my body and the bright red face and the tightness of my chest and the... well, you get it. But I've gotten to the point where I feel good after instead of wanting to keel over. And, shockingly, I have even started to feel guilty for making poor eating choices or skipping a few days at the gym because something good is on TV. Sometimes I'd even RATHER go to the gym (or use the Wii Fit or whatever) than watch TV. Mir-a-cle.
I visited home this past weekend and actually asked my brother to kick my ass at the gym. And he did. For an hour and a half. Ouch. I am like a completely new person.
In the last few weeks what I've struggled with the most has been keeping my sweet tooth satisfied almost daily so that I don't break down and eat two cupcakes in one day (oh, like today, perhaps?). The two things I can't live without are ice cream and cookies. I've learned to substitute in 100 calorie packs of chocolate-covered pretzels for a mid-day cookie snack. Tasty and effective. And Rachel and I discovered some delish Weight Watchers ice cream sundaes with cookies or peanut butter cups that, albeit small, are a much more reasonable replacement for a pint of Turkey Hill vanilla/chocolate twice a week. But oh my gawd is that stuff gooooood.
But I've committed to this thing. I'm involved in not one but TWO weight-loss challenges (one involves a cupcake reward if everyone loses for the week!), and really will shed this 30 pounds. I wonder what I will look like 30 pounds lighter? I'm going for Kim Kardashian.
Since I've spent six weeks exercising more regularly than I probably ever have, I'm actually beginning to enjoy it more. I could certainly do without the ridiculous amount of sweat pouring off of my body and the bright red face and the tightness of my chest and the... well, you get it. But I've gotten to the point where I feel good after instead of wanting to keel over. And, shockingly, I have even started to feel guilty for making poor eating choices or skipping a few days at the gym because something good is on TV. Sometimes I'd even RATHER go to the gym (or use the Wii Fit or whatever) than watch TV. Mir-a-cle.
I visited home this past weekend and actually asked my brother to kick my ass at the gym. And he did. For an hour and a half. Ouch. I am like a completely new person.
In the last few weeks what I've struggled with the most has been keeping my sweet tooth satisfied almost daily so that I don't break down and eat two cupcakes in one day (oh, like today, perhaps?). The two things I can't live without are ice cream and cookies. I've learned to substitute in 100 calorie packs of chocolate-covered pretzels for a mid-day cookie snack. Tasty and effective. And Rachel and I discovered some delish Weight Watchers ice cream sundaes with cookies or peanut butter cups that, albeit small, are a much more reasonable replacement for a pint of Turkey Hill vanilla/chocolate twice a week. But oh my gawd is that stuff gooooood.
But I've committed to this thing. I'm involved in not one but TWO weight-loss challenges (one involves a cupcake reward if everyone loses for the week!), and really will shed this 30 pounds. I wonder what I will look like 30 pounds lighter? I'm going for Kim Kardashian.
Friday, February 5, 2010
good things come to those who donate
Yesterday I donated ten and a half inches of my hair to Locks of Love. Technically, it hasn't been donated YET, as it is still hanging out in my bag. Which is certainly a little strange. What if I am on the subway and I am reaching for something in my bag, but a Ziploc bag of auburn hair falls out instead? Um, psycho with some sort of shrine? Cool. I should probably send in the hair today, huh?
I've been wanting to donate my hair for years, but its never worked out until now. First it was a problem because I've been coloring my hair since I was 15, and LoL did not accept color-treated hair for donation. Then, when they did start accepting it, I had to wait more than a year to further grow my hair out. And last night, after anxiously awaiting February 4th, snip snip went the scissors and I teared up when my ponytail was finally detached from my head.
I made the appointment about three weeks ago, and up until yesterday I was very excited to donate my hair. I've had long(er) hair for more than two years (its been three since my last short haircut) and maintaining it to my level of satisfaction was sometimes a challenge. I like to be pretty low maintenance in the morning (compared to say, Rachel*. Although I say that with love, darling), and washing and straightening my hair usually took 35-40 minutes to get under control and then my arm hurt from all that damn pulling. But sometimes it looked super hot and it made it worth it.
Yesterday, though, I was UNREASONABLY sad about cutting it. I was going through some other crazy emotions and the idea of cutting my long hair was the last thing that I was interested in. But I went through with it because I had set the date. It was happening.
So here I am.
I woke up this morning, forgot that I had cut my hair, and when I got to the bathroom I didn't recognize myself.
Shortly after, I got an excited call from my unemployed stepfather to tell me that he is now EMPLOYED! This is HUGE for my family - both financially and emotionally. It alleviates a great deal of pressure on me to continuing caring for them as though I was the parent. Not completely, though, because my family still has a long way to go, but it's a terrific step forward. John is amped to start work and he thanked me several times for my help in getting him to this point. He said that he "knew" I'd help him. And that made me feel good.
A little less than an hour later, I spoke with my mother, and told her how excited I was to get that phone call. She then told me that last night she had a dream that my recently deceased grandfather was standing at the end of her bed, trying to wake her. He told her that everything was going to be okay. He said that he'd started a garden where he was and my aunt (his daughter), although inept at gardening, was helping him. I cried.
Today I've seen great good karma come my way from cutting my long locks. Some very much needed positivity. Maybe my hair was cursed?
And maybe I will win my office Superbowl pool!
*it's just her picking out clothes process... but it's 99.9% of mornings.
I've been wanting to donate my hair for years, but its never worked out until now. First it was a problem because I've been coloring my hair since I was 15, and LoL did not accept color-treated hair for donation. Then, when they did start accepting it, I had to wait more than a year to further grow my hair out. And last night, after anxiously awaiting February 4th, snip snip went the scissors and I teared up when my ponytail was finally detached from my head.
I made the appointment about three weeks ago, and up until yesterday I was very excited to donate my hair. I've had long(er) hair for more than two years (its been three since my last short haircut) and maintaining it to my level of satisfaction was sometimes a challenge. I like to be pretty low maintenance in the morning (compared to say, Rachel*. Although I say that with love, darling), and washing and straightening my hair usually took 35-40 minutes to get under control and then my arm hurt from all that damn pulling. But sometimes it looked super hot and it made it worth it.
Yesterday, though, I was UNREASONABLY sad about cutting it. I was going through some other crazy emotions and the idea of cutting my long hair was the last thing that I was interested in. But I went through with it because I had set the date. It was happening.
So here I am.
I woke up this morning, forgot that I had cut my hair, and when I got to the bathroom I didn't recognize myself.
Shortly after, I got an excited call from my unemployed stepfather to tell me that he is now EMPLOYED! This is HUGE for my family - both financially and emotionally. It alleviates a great deal of pressure on me to continuing caring for them as though I was the parent. Not completely, though, because my family still has a long way to go, but it's a terrific step forward. John is amped to start work and he thanked me several times for my help in getting him to this point. He said that he "knew" I'd help him. And that made me feel good.
A little less than an hour later, I spoke with my mother, and told her how excited I was to get that phone call. She then told me that last night she had a dream that my recently deceased grandfather was standing at the end of her bed, trying to wake her. He told her that everything was going to be okay. He said that he'd started a garden where he was and my aunt (his daughter), although inept at gardening, was helping him. I cried.
Today I've seen great good karma come my way from cutting my long locks. Some very much needed positivity. Maybe my hair was cursed?
And maybe I will win my office Superbowl pool!
*it's just her picking out clothes process... but it's 99.9% of mornings.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
filling my lungs
This is a ridiculously lame cliche, but the last few weeks have felt like my lungs are filling. Most of the time, they feel like they're filling with water and I am helpless to stop it (see previous post).
Today, though, after no more than a simple email, I feel some relief and my lungs have again begun to fill up with air. I have a job lead for my stepfather. I want to hold this air in my lungs until it goes stale. It's the most relief I've felt in weeks, and I am terrified that it is only fleeting.
Breathe in.
Today, though, after no more than a simple email, I feel some relief and my lungs have again begun to fill up with air. I have a job lead for my stepfather. I want to hold this air in my lungs until it goes stale. It's the most relief I've felt in weeks, and I am terrified that it is only fleeting.
Breathe in.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
helpless
This year has begun for me with an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness. Which, obviously, means its going to be a banner year. One for the books, for sure.
Since my grandfather died two weeks ago, I have been working especially hard to help my stepfather find employment. Because of the shitty economy, he's been unemployed now for more than a year and a half. Considering what my relationship used to be with this man, I never thought I'd be doing this. I used to hate him. Like, actually hate him. Now, I don't. He was someone who told me I was a useless slut for too many years of my life, I didn't think I could ever like him. I thought I'd never have enough therapy to move past those words and how they affected my self-esteem. Now, he's mellowed significantly in his old(er) age, and I've seen him change. He's not the self-involved verbally abusive man he once was. He took care of his dying father full-time for more than a year, and he is trying hard to provide for his family. I can respect that, regardless of our previous relationship. When I see him now, I can hug him and appreciate him for trying to repair the relationships he'd badly damaged with alcohol years before.
I try to spend at least a half hour everyday looking on Monster.com, etc. for jobs that he can apply to. Since he doesn't have the means or skills to navigate the internet at home, I can help him in this way. I revamped his resume, and I apply for positions on his behalf almost daily. I'm not resentful that I am doing this either. I actually feel as though I am not doing enough. My family is drowning and I feel helpless to save them. Instead, I am here in New York, focused on my own problems which vary from the serious (I can barely pay my own bills) to the insignificant (I pull my own long hair when I put my bag on my shoulder).
Over the last few weeks, I've weighed the pros and cons of how I can be more helpful to my family and their situation. The one thing I keep returning to is moving back to Pennsylvania so that I can help them more actively. The pros of this decision are that I could be more accessible to my family - not just my mom, stepfather and brother, but to my dad and my grandparents. My one remaining grandfather, whom I consider myself close to, has asked me if I plan on moving home every time I see him for the past several years. The first few times I just laughed this off -- I mean, WHY would I leave NEW YORK, to go back to my hometown? It seems ludicrous. Now, more than ever, I see the merits of being closer to my family - my whole family - and I sometimes feel a crippling guilt for not being there when they really need me.
... to be continued...
Since my grandfather died two weeks ago, I have been working especially hard to help my stepfather find employment. Because of the shitty economy, he's been unemployed now for more than a year and a half. Considering what my relationship used to be with this man, I never thought I'd be doing this. I used to hate him. Like, actually hate him. Now, I don't. He was someone who told me I was a useless slut for too many years of my life, I didn't think I could ever like him. I thought I'd never have enough therapy to move past those words and how they affected my self-esteem. Now, he's mellowed significantly in his old(er) age, and I've seen him change. He's not the self-involved verbally abusive man he once was. He took care of his dying father full-time for more than a year, and he is trying hard to provide for his family. I can respect that, regardless of our previous relationship. When I see him now, I can hug him and appreciate him for trying to repair the relationships he'd badly damaged with alcohol years before.
I try to spend at least a half hour everyday looking on Monster.com, etc. for jobs that he can apply to. Since he doesn't have the means or skills to navigate the internet at home, I can help him in this way. I revamped his resume, and I apply for positions on his behalf almost daily. I'm not resentful that I am doing this either. I actually feel as though I am not doing enough. My family is drowning and I feel helpless to save them. Instead, I am here in New York, focused on my own problems which vary from the serious (I can barely pay my own bills) to the insignificant (I pull my own long hair when I put my bag on my shoulder).
Over the last few weeks, I've weighed the pros and cons of how I can be more helpful to my family and their situation. The one thing I keep returning to is moving back to Pennsylvania so that I can help them more actively. The pros of this decision are that I could be more accessible to my family - not just my mom, stepfather and brother, but to my dad and my grandparents. My one remaining grandfather, whom I consider myself close to, has asked me if I plan on moving home every time I see him for the past several years. The first few times I just laughed this off -- I mean, WHY would I leave NEW YORK, to go back to my hometown? It seems ludicrous. Now, more than ever, I see the merits of being closer to my family - my whole family - and I sometimes feel a crippling guilt for not being there when they really need me.
... to be continued...
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