June 10, 2002

• Looking.

  
  

  Week 3 - my husband is still out of work. The leads he had have dried up, with staff being hired internally or having a budget disappear. Noone wants to hire him.

  
  

  His mother has taken to phoning at all hours (11:30pm a favourite) and bellowing sad-sack job descriptions from the local paper into the answering machine. The jobs are getting lowlier as the days go by. She seems oblivious as to what she is doing to her son's psyche. I am not.

  
  

  He's looking worried. Very little money to live on - even if he was getting paid in the next 3 weeks. In fact, if we don't get some money coming in before the end of next week - things will be dire indeed.

  
  

  This is abysmal. It really is. I know we'll get through it, but god dammit, I wish we didn't have to. We don't need another horrible experience to teach us another life lesson, thanks. We could be just fine, living in ignorance.

  
  

  And I wander around pasting a death's head grin on my face, trying desperately not to let him know that inside I am screaming in panic. Because the last thing he needs to know is that I am worried about his ability to get it together.

  
  

  But I am. Our bills have been paid, including our mortgage, up until July 19. I did that, at least. But how are we supposed to live? I can exist on Kraft Dinner and tomato soup, but we have a child who needs a lot more than that to be healthy. I can skip meals, claim I am not hungry, borrow books from the library and somehow make DO. But can a 2 year old? She can't skip meals, and she needs a winter coat, and somehow, I will find the money for it.

  
  

  I have organised my books into the ones I will sell and the ones I can keep. They are just books, ink and paper, easily replaceable. Some are sentimental favourites, but nothing is more sentimental than my child and my family - so out they go.

  
  

  I have a freezer stocked with ground beef and chicken thighs, and a pantry full of pasta and rice.

  
  

  I can do this.

  
  

  But the awful sick feeling in my stomach is getting bigger. And not being able to share the worry is making things worse. I can't share without doubling his worry and making him feel inadequate, but it is so isolating for me. Wandering around the house again at 4am, plotting and planning, scheming and rehearsing things to say to people who might want money or who don't understand. Putting a shiny face on to friends and family - out of pride, since we are not charity cases, but also out of compassion, since there isn't much they can do anyway.

  
  

  I am the strong one.  Since I was little, I sucked it up, spat it out and soldiered onward. But I am realising that being strong and tough isn't always enough. I am lonely and scared. When you are tough, you are supposed to handle it. There's no sitting in a corner with your arms around your knees, feeling sorry for yourself. Because if YOU fall apart, what on earth does that mean for those around you who are relying on you? It means their world gets all distorted and right now, the world is skewed enough. And I don't need or want any more responsibility for anyone else's world view.

  
  

  So.

  
  

  A big ball of something sour sitting in my gut. Tangled streams of negativity snarled in my head, looping endlessly. No where for any of it to go, so I stamp it down and paper it over with thoughts of Christmas, or our new home, or teaching my 2 year old to read. Smash it down and dare it to resurface.

  
  

  I wish it was next month. This is tiring.

  • 11:56 pm
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