this isn't working.

I went home and saw a ghost. As I drove through town, I couldn't shake the sleepiness, but I also couldn't stop the nerves. Each time I go home -- to the town I love most -- my anxiety shoots up thoughts.

"What if I see them?" and "What if they see me?"

It has been a year since the night that I went to the house I used to call home, went to dinner, and finished eating my food in silence as they verbally attacked me across the table. They called me names I won't disclose, insinuated recklessness & worthlessness, & so much more... because I didn't want to live life like them. Because I don't live life like them. Because they couldn't "save" me anymore. I try to act like it's old news, like it doesn't even matter.

But I went home, and I saw a ghost, and he saw me too.

---

I spent the month of February as a different person. I swear I didn't know her, and I don't want to meet again. For a while, she worked in a Starbucks kiosk part-time, ignoring the protocols and rules enforced by the company because management didn't care. Management was merely a person standing there, cracking jokes and making messes at the expense of everyone else's sanity. Selling her own business instead of training anyone to properly conduct the one she was supposed to run. Nobody believed that it was sickening me, that my anxiety was too high, that my depression was making me too low.

Then I quit because it was. I didn't care who saw or didn't see, unless they were a doctor or nurse or someone with some knowledge of how to properly treat me. Multiple organ infections and fevers and constant lethargy and medical bills that were laughable. Does anyone know the cost of dozens of uninsured blood draws? The anger was reddening, or maybe that was the off-and-on stress rash. It still hasn't gone away. When will it go away?

These questions aren't important. I know. Only one thing matters at this time when others think of me: what I must be doing wrong since after all, it's March 3 of 2020 and I haven't landed a full-time job since December 13 of 2019.

---

Perhaps from the outside, it looks okay. It feels right and well-intentioned to see me only as unemployed. To focus on the problem. As someone who must be doing everything wrong. I am here to tell you, that on the inside, in the places that I have feelings because I am a human, particularly one with multiple untreated mental illnesses, that everyone's, "Well, here's what you're doing wrong," messages have fucked me up.

I will not excuse my language.

Instead, I will excuse everyone from sending that next, "Are you applying to jobs still?" message. The next, "Well, do you know how to write a resume? A cover letter?" message. The next string of words that implies that I am not trying, that I am not capable, can be deleted before it's sent.

Let me provide some insight. I am a published writer: multiple articles, poems, a short story, and a final report about a federal grant that a state agency implemented over five years. I am a successful fundraiser. The first event I ever planned and managed? Almost entirely alone, in a city I was new to? It raised $22,000 in one evening. I wasn't even there -- my notes and support from nearly 1000 miles away were that good. I have developed training documents that still to this day support a national agency in more than 15 offices. I have provided financial (and otherwise) resources to thousands of people. I have advocated for human rights for all humans. I have done so much. Because that's what I do. I show up, and I create & succeed & try.

Yes, I try.

---

I'm sure I seem angry. That's because I am.

It hurts to know that I have spent five years focused on experiences and education that I love, only to be stuck in this moment that feels like nothing more than pain & debt & more pain & more debt. It hurts to know that I graduated college an entire year early, with honors, and right now all I have to show is thousands of dollars in student debt that I can't pay back. It hurts to know that the people I would support if the roles were reversed have not supported me.

In fact, in the last three months, I have lost a lot of friends. I have watched people literally delete me from their lives (hooray for social media providing us with extra shots of cortisol when the world as we know it crashing into pieces just isn't enough). I have asked for help, and I have been told to "try harder" and to "ask God."

First, I am trying. There are days that my trying looks different, but sometimes getting out of bed is the only effort I can manage. Second, there isn't a god or goddess or deity otherwise that I believe in -- don't use this weak point in my life to force your ideas upon me to change that.

---

When I went home, I saw a ghost. I saw a man driving a car that I used to share a garage with, and he saw me too. He persistently craned his neck to look at me through his rearview mirror -- so much so that he probably had to pop a few Advil when he arrived at work. I was trembling all over, my mind filling me with thoughts of just how much of a disappointment I must be to him and the family I once had.

And then I woke up. I drove to a place I always felt supported. Two dear friends who happen to be past coworkers hugged me. They didn't pester me about life. They hugged me, gladly shared space with me, gave me lunch, and wished me well. Two other friends (one in another state and one in another country) have checked in on me regularly as a person. They ask about my days. They laugh at my jokes, and they celebrate the small successes. They don't pester me with "doing more" or "trying harder" because they know that I am. They know that there isn't another option.

So yes, I went home, and I saw a ghost. But once I let the initial wave of emotions settle down, I realized that I'm not afraid. I do not fear anyone who thinks I'm failing or disappointing. I don't need that.

Instead, I need my people who listen to me talk about the day I spent with Meredith Gray, because sometimes she's the only person I can talk about. I need my people who mail me bags of my favorite snacks and gift me financial support to make sure I don't lose my home or car. I need my people who, despite having a 15 hour time difference, talk to me almost daily. I need my people who give me a bottle of gatorade on a comfortable couch and open their ears to my ranting even though they are going through hell right now too. I need my people who see me as a person, not a problem.

If you're those people, thank you. And if you're not, thank you for helping me see them.