It's been months since I've been on here, but someone I've come to admire quite dearly told me I shouldn't stop writing. So I think I'll give it another go. When I stopped writing, I wasn't in the best place. My depression was so bad I just couldn't find the will to write and, as much as I hate to admit it, that voice in my head was saying, "What's the point anyway? No one cares about your whining. No one is going to read it so why even bother?" I've said in the past I kept this blog for me, that it didn't matter if anyone read it. I was wrong. It's nice to feel like there's someone out there that actually takes the time to hear what I have to say. I don't know why, it just does.
I wish I could come on here and say how much better life has gotten since my last blog, but I can't. I still haven't gotten another job. After ten years of dedication to Teen Court I left in December because, once again, the board screwed me over. Instead of giving me the assistant coordinator position, that I rightfully earned and was told would be mine, they brought in some noob who knew nothing about the program, much less how to do the job I was already doing. I had knee surgery about two weeks ago which put even more of a financial strain on my dad. Thanks to a screw up from the bank that handles my financial aid I am basically two payments behind on my car and I have no way to pay it. Money is tighter than tight around here and I'm starting to feel the darkness of anxiety and depression creeping up around me, eventually engulfing me I'm sure. The bully in my head is telling me I'm pathetic. That I'm a failure. That I can't amount to anything. To be honest, I'm starting to believe it again. I'm 23, still living at home, can't pay my bills, and nowhere close to being done with school. I know having Asperger's plays a part in all of this but I absolutely loathe using my diagnosis as an excuse for anything.
Even before knee surgery I was having those days where I didn't want to get out of bed. Getting out of bed meant facing another day of failure. Penny, my Goldendoodle puppy who will be 10 months old in just a few short weeks, has been my saving grace. And I am so thankful. She's the funniest, brattiest, orneriest, sweetest, dog I've ever met. And we're way too attached to each other. I can't leave a room without her coming to see where I am. I can't take a shower without her popping her head in to make sure I didn't secretly escape without her. If I try to lock her out of the bathroom she shoves her paws under the door and cries like a toddler in protest. Hell, if I just roll over in bed she has to pop her head up to see what I'm doing. If I have to go somewhere without her she lays in the kitchen by the back door waiting for me to come back. She's incredibly smart, if not too smart. When I talk to her she looks at me, entirely focused and listening, occasionally tilting her head from side to side in the most adorable way. If I ask her where her Meme is she goes to find my mom, if I ask for her Kong or a specific toy she brings it to me. I can't say, "We're going to the dog park later today" because she will drive me nuts until we do. I don't even have to say "dog park", when she sees me pick up her bag she runs to the garage door to load up. When we pull in the parking lot I don't have to put a leash on her, I just open the car door and she runs up to the gate and sits, patiently waiting to be let in. She sits by my feet when I brush my teeth in the morning and at night, waiting for me to brush her teeth when I'm done. Every Sunday, without fail, she wakes me up an hour before my alarm goes off by sitting on my head until I'm trying to sit up. Why? Because she knows on Sundays we go to Starbucks for breakfast and she gets her cup of whipped cream. I swear she's really a tiny human in a fur suit. I may be starting a Penny blog soon to document her ridiculous antics, so stay tuned for that.
I'm okay for now. I'm not great or anywhere close to being as good as I'd like to be, but I'm okay. I may not want to believe it, or even think about it, but realistically I know there's a light at the end of this depression tunnel. I don't know how far ahead of me it is. I don't know how long it will take me to reach it. But I do know it's there. And that's a start. There's hope. I feel like I can't breathe because the weight on my chest is crushing my lungs but I have to keep fighting. I don't know what's going to happen with us, dad is working 20hr days sometimes trying to just make ends meet, and the fear of the unknown is enough to make me collapse. I can't promise I'll be able to bring myself to keep writing, but I'll at least try.