Ah, hell. Six months since my last WYFP column and I'm still unemployed and broke, arthritic and in pain, depressed. I wish my former second job were still around. That was $8.50/hour sitting down work. But the place got sold, and my team hasn't been called since then.
My summer vacation so far has been a daytrip to Harmony Cave. We plan on viewing the upcoming eclipse from a Missouri campground. I have planned both of these with equal parts anticipation ("Yay!") and grim determination ("You aren't getting any healthier. Arthritis is degenerative. Do this while you still can!").
The dryer finally died. My clothesline waits patiently in the garage for someone who knows how to put it up.
My rock, Wellsource (formerly the North Iowa Mental Health Center), has closed. I've had to scramble to continue seeing my therapist and psychiatric nurse practitioner at their new location. My last couple of sessions have been taken up with annoying paperwork. Filling it out makes me wonder who reads it, and will they decide I'm not sick enough to need care?
Arthritis has opened my eyes to some unpleasant truths. I can have more than one disabling condition at a time. Walking can no longer be my main source of transportation. I can't indulge my musical theatre hopes anymore; I won't be dancing. If it weren't for my roommate, I'd be looking for assisted living facilities. Things in my house need to change if I am to stay here. I'm 45 and there's too much life left at the end of my usefulness.
Got a frazzarackin' problem? I may respond slowly, as my roommate is working on our server, making internet somewhat chancy. And here's the boilerplate I know you've been waiting for:
