Shame, money, space: a long one.
A missive that I've been so afraid to share, I sat on it for nearly two weeks.
My Dears,
It’s Saturday morning. The temp outside is 20°F (~-7°C) and it’s meant to get up to 35°F (~2°C), which is quite warm from my perspective. I’ve scheduled myself to deliver food this afternoon in the nearest big town (14k people) roughly 25 miles from me. This is the job I’ve chosen to fill the gaps while I write and publish books and draw in paid subscribers. I’m hoping to bring in $100 tonight. Retract that, I NEED to bring in $100 tonight.
I’m in my room cross-legged and propped up against pillows on my bed, notebook in my lap. I don’t have a chair or a desk and even if I did, one wouldn’t fit given the two dressers and the bookshelves, one of which sits away from the wall six inches to accommodate the electric baseboard heater. I asked for mounted shelving when I moved in a year and a half ago to cover eight feet of that wall. They would give me enough storage to accommodate my belongings, including my clothes, and possibly items from my studio, clearing up tons of floor space and offering my parents quality, functional storage when I get my own dwelling (something this house sorely lacks) on a wall otherwise inefficiently used.
I’ve been patient but it’s clear that my shelving is low on the priority list. I imagine the room with an armchair and a murphy bed for maximum daytime space. A dropleaf table so that I have a worktop and can move my studio down here. Having it in the loft isn’t working for me. Most of this doesn’t work for me space-wise, noise-wise, lighting-wise.
The fan is on in my room and the door is closed which mostly dins the noise from whatever Dad is watching in the other room. I managed to convince him not to turn the TV on 9 am when I was sitting out on the sofa hopeful he’d have some work to do in the garage before I had to move to my room, but alas.
He struggles to pick up higher tones so the TV is always loud and frequently on the weekends he turns it on to record something and then goes out to the garage for a few hours. I don’t realize he’s not actually sitting there until I get up to use the toilet or get some food.
Since they switched from satellite to YouTube TV a few months back he’s lost his hunting and his classic western channels, which cause their own kind of stress on my system, but now he watches a lot of intense sounding shows that raise my cortisol and put me on edge. Rockford Files is about the only one that I can handle.
If he’s got a fire lit and is running his own fan which spreads the heat through the house, the TV goes up even louder.
The layout of the house is such that there really isn’t anywhere you can go where it’s quiet when a TV is running either upstairs or downstairs. Don’t misunderstand, it’s a big house it’s just that so much of it is open and sound seems to flow to every corner and through every wall.
I, on the other hand, can spend whole days in relative silence. It’s a necessity. Being confronted with the stimuli distracts me and fills my brain with things that pull me away from my work. Which is to say my thoughts. Instrumental sounds might be nice, but I never have them queued up so I don’t bother.
I save the TV for the evening after my work is done. I used to like cooking while watching a show or listening to a podcast, even doing the washing up to BBC World News was pleasant, but cooking happens upstairs where my mother’s TV is often on and so I’ve stopped cooking or doing the dishes with any regularity.
I don’t want to seem ungrateful, because I’m not. I have a room I don’t have to pay for with money and a lot of my inner world is full of joy significantly more frequently than it ever has been before and that’s primarily because I’ve been allowed to have this time.
Because I’ve chosen to put my writing practice first. But I can’t pretend that this life here is easy breezy beautiful cover girl. The relationship with my parents has never been easeful and I feel like it’s, even more, strained the more easeful they presume my life is, but maybe that’s something I make up in my head. I don’t yet feel allowed to feel joy and ease?
They do seem to think that because I don’t go to a ‘real’ job I should be available to do things like the washing up (including theirs) and keeping the house tidy (something no one around here does) and regularly cooking dinner. They think I’m available to respond to texts and emails with requests to put thawing meat into the fridge or bring in packages as they arrive. And to be fair I think I should be too. I think I owe them, but I moved here in hopes of making my life more easeful, slower, quieter. I moved here to here to put most of my attention toward my writing. That’s not what I got. Though I shouldn’t be surprised.
Cooking for three means the pot of something I make that would last me a week and a half lasts just a few days then more cooking has to happen. Cleaning for three means the mess is three times messier. It seems like a small thing, but for me, it’s a lot. I can barely take care of myself.
I’m probably not fit to live with anyone except Copper who outside of his rage at delivery people, is happy to tuck up all day always in the room where I am not and lounge. More cat-like than dog.
He’s looking at me now from the door hoping I’ll let him out of the bedroom so he can sit with Dad.
I need my brain to function. I need emotional health. Not just to be a writer, but, you know, to like, function. To feed myself and ensure that I exercise. Peopling is important but under these circumstances, it feels more of a hindrance to my well-being than a help.
It feels like such a complicated thing to feel that joy and love I felt the other week and also to feel and experience—this.
Making the decision to focus on my writing practice has been exactly what I needed even if it’s been a windy, confusing, sometimes anxiety-ridden path. And living here was the only way I could see that coming to be at the time.
But now I struggle to see my way to somewhere else, financially.
When I started this newsletter/blog, I didn’t mean for it to be a documentation of my path into writing. I’d prefer if the things I posted here were more polished, more “complete,” more assured. I’d love to turn a corner and find that my writing has become more lyrical, poetic, even, as I claim to be, or that my essays are less solipsistic and more journalistic. Basically, I still want my writing to be anything that it is not, which it will never be.
But instead, this space has become a place of discovery and exploration, which silly enough, is exactly what I staunchly insist the essay is, and I hope that whatever I write serves you in some way. Back at SAIC, so many of my cohort seemed to show up to the program, or to develop so quickly into, fully formed writers, whereas I realize now I was still so afraid of being myself, I strived to write what was expected, which I we will always fail at.
I can trace this inclination back to a lifetime of masking my true self even from myself, which is a common neurodivergent coping mechanism, but I think all this writing without editors or deadlines is uncovering—me.
I am discovering myself.
And so though it scares the shit out of me, especially since I can feel myself becoming more and more vulnerable, I know that I’m doing exactly what I need to be doing here, now, in this space.
And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that this week has been hard AF. The new moon coming into artistic, empathic, all-the-feels Pisces in the wee hours of Monday morning was/is a total bitch. All the feels, wounds, shame come to the surface.
Mom let me know late Friday afternoon that she was headed to pick up my sister’s dog who would suddenly be staying with us for the weekend and my Autistic brain saw red. Not only was I not going to get Friday night pizza unless I chose to rush and get it myself (and I almost did) but the expectation for a calm weekend shifted in an instant. Timber is a very anxious, energetic dog who needs a lot of attention and exercise and I suppose for a moment I felt I was going to have to be responsible for ensuring she got it because I cannot stand to see our furry friends in need.
I. was. triggered. I mean sheets of rage. That’s all I could see for hours. I do not process change or surprises well. It feels like my whole body goes through a painful shift in energy.
And the worst part is that I’m expected to roll with the punches, be cool, not act as if every cell in my body isn’t shifting half an inch in every which direction and then back again. Having anger is a big fat effing NO.
So as I worked to contain myself and wondered if I’d even be able to keep the delivery shifts I’d scheduled myself for, like maybe I’d have to stay home and look after the dogs, make sure my dog didn’t lose his shit and attack Timber, etc., a light cracked in on a shame-well I thought I’d worked through or was working through or maybe buried, I mean the joy and hope I felt last week y’all was so real.
But here we are: Money. Money, y’all. MONEY. And, not having it and for a minute feeling thwarted in earning it. It was an irrational leap, I know, but there’s a connection from being powerless in my own space/energy/weekend agenda to feeling powerless about money. A loss of control.
I am behind on some bills and desperately need as much cash as I can earn in two or three days.
When I embarked on this writing adventure I had no delusions of earning a full-time income from the beginning, but as usual, it does take me a much longer time than it does your average human to get to the same place. Where one person might be able to build a reasonable freelance income in three to six months, I don’t know how long it takes me because I tried and found contemporary freelancing and its low pay to cost more energy, time, and brain space than it was worth.
Though I did try. And through that time, the money ran out.
As it does.
And I compensated with credit cards. As one does.
Now those have maxed out.
I have to write it plain like that because it’s giving me a panic attack thinking I might actually share this with you.
Or this: about nine months ago I finally applied for Social Security Disability. This week, after all that bloody paperwork and time and evaluations, I was denied.
They typically deny everyone on the first go. Literally, the whole admin process was debilitating, I nearly missed the deadline to complete the application.
And I feel the weight of: I don’t deserve this. Money for nothing. Despite the fact that I have a diagnosis (unlike many who struggle as much as myself) and that I have been in a cycle of burnout and depression since I was small and despite the fact that my work and education history, though extensive, has many erratic stops and starts, changes in direction, absences, tardies, barely earned degrees, and working in low-paying jobs I could barely hold onto, all of which exhibits exactly the life of a person who needs freaking help.
I still feel like I’m not allowed to ask for it.
Like I deserve to struggle. And believe me, being ON disability is a struggle in itself given it basically just keeps one at or slightly above poverty.
When the denial came I deflated. Like there’s no way to climb out of this hole. Not only do I not deserve help, there is none.
I crawled into bed and the most resigned, despairing tears slid down the side of my face as I played game after game of solitaire and watched episodes of Midsomer Murders without actually watching.
How quickly and easily I was jolted out of “iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou” into the vibrational energy of fear and lack and anger and despair.
Is it hot in here? I feel hot. Are your hands shaking? I think I’ve had a stroke, the left side of my face feels funny.
It’s an arduous, demeaning, unethical process, applying for disability, and I have no choice but to continue forward. I can appeal, which will bring my case to court (honestly, y’all, how much money do they spend keeping people from support they truly need?).
I feel stuck between a rock and a hard place. I need to catch up on bills, I desperately need my own dwelling, but working even for 12 hours over two days doing a job that’s meant to be chill and laid back and a side gig for many, just completely shattered me for three: I struggled to get out of bed, I couldn’t focus, I became desperately afraid that feeling that way was all I had to look forward to and that this would be my life forever and I’d still not make my bills.
A temporary but very real depression. I know this sounds like manic depression. Neurodivergent women and girls are often misdiagnosed with it. We were so overlooked on the neurodiverse spectrums that they didn’t recognize all the symptoms together. This one’s called emotional dysregulation: the inability of a person to control or regulate their emotional responses to provocative stimuli. In other words, a lot of ups and downs.
News that might only irritate you, like not getting your Friday night pizza, has the potential to enrage me. There is a reason Autistic boys have an unfair rap for being violent. It’s the cells in their body shifting every which way and back again. It’s being confronted with overstimulation to sound, lights, etc., with no escape or coping mechanisms. It’s feeling they can’t get what they need and not knowing how to ask for it. But boys aren’t typically taught from the crib that they must always be polite and quiet and contain their emotions, especially anger, lest they hurt someone’s feelings or put their housing situation at risk (though, of course, they sometimes do).
And news that might only frustrate you, wipes me out until I can’t move. And all I can think about is how much energy and time it’ll take to file for an appeal and potentially receive the news that I was denied again while my debt piles up and I become more and more burnt out just trying to keep up delivering food a few nights a week and writing. I became exhausted just thinking about how exhausting it’ll be.
I do what I can to manage my emotions. Not in an emotionally stifling way, as I grew up forced to do, but in a balanced way. Meditation has taught me to observe without judgment, my thoughts and emotions, and not force them any which way, but allow. Yoga, dance, singing, writing, crying all help me move through emotions, release them. Stifling them, as I was taught to do, only creates a festering that’s bound to ooze and burst.
But all this, and I do accuse that Pisces New Moon for exacerbating all the feels, it’s too much.
After two nights of delivering I wake Monday morning slowly. The new moon was at its peak at 1 am but I was hard asleep. That’s one benefit to labor: my body is so tired my brain can’t object to sleep as it frequently does. I settle into the sheets, feeling their smoothness on my legs and the heaviness of my weighted blanket on my torso. I roll over. My left sciatic or what I have assumed is my left sciatic twinges and the arthritis spread across my low back sort of tingles, vibrates, lets me know it’s there. My upper back and shoulders are already tense. It’s a slow day.
A yin day.
A day to lean into savoring long stretches and this luscious time in bed.
I don’t rush myself out. whenever my mind wanders to anything I have to do or should get started on, I tune into my breath—in—out—in—out.
I bring my attention to the sensation at the bottoms of my feet. Some writing comes to me and I let it play out even if I might forget it later. I have no idea what time it is but the late February sun shines brightly into the gap between the ledge and my blackout shades even on the north-facing windows.
I know at one point Copper half-heartedly barked at something out the window in the living room and I called him in to snuggle so he’d stop. And he did come for a bit but he’s gone now. I roll out of bed and light an incense to cleanse the room. I find Copper where he normally spends his mornings out on the sofa.
I savor the image of him curled there before I go to the bathroom to fish an eyelash from my eye and use the toilet. I put the kettle on for coffee. I go back to the bedroom to throw on my day sweats and make the bed.
Outside, sporadic large flakes of snow gently fall. I hear something that sounds like a recording and human footsteps upstairs and ask up the stairs, “Whose human footsteps do I hear?”
Mom answers, “It’s me?”
“Why do you say that like I’m supposed to know that?”
“Oh,” she says a bit humbled, “I thought I told everyone.”
No, no you didn’t, my brain says.
“But I’m watching a webinar, so…” she says.
“Oh,” I say, and finish up my coffee.
I consider sitting up in bed with my notebook so that her webinar, which is audible from the sofa, doesn’t bother me, but despite the stiffness and pain, I feel more awake and alive. Sleeping until I am ready to wake without shame or rushing off is always a delight regardless. So I’d like a change of scene from the bedroom and move my fan out to drown out Mom’s webinar.
There are aspects to delivering food that I quite enjoy: I like learning the area, my parents only moved here ten or so years ago and I find the enclaves of houses surrounded by trees and lake fascinating. I’ve never seen a town laid out quite like it.
I like that if I have to do some kind of labor outside of writing, that it’s mostly on my own in my own space (my car). I can choose my schedule and if I’m feeling overwhelmed or get caught up writing something, I can cancel my shift without even having to talk to anyone.
I like getting away from the screen and doing something a bit mindless.
And though driving in general is faster than I’d like to move, I’ve made a practice out of staying present and taking my time, not feeling like I have to rush off to make a delivery just because someone waits on the other end.
I use my time between orders to focus on my breathing. A few years ago I would have panicked that the orders I was meant to deliver were taking so long, but on my good days, I turn the whole shift into a meditative practice in easefulness.
But still, my body revolts after just two days on the job and I still have at least another couple hundred dollars left to go.
Sometimes your only option is to wait until the everything-will-always-be-shit mental fog clears just enough to find some perspective, which I have. Yep, I’m sitting deep in shit creek and I may not find a clean and easeful way out (sitting in shit is never going to be clean), but I’m not as powerless as I’ve felt and this situation isn’t the same as the situations I’ve been in before.
In the before times I worked for seven to 10 dollars an hour, usually part-time because I couldn’t handle anything more, and was still miserably burnt out and depressed every single day of the week. The last time I had a job-job I cried on Thursday and Friday nights, I was being reprimanded at work for my attendance and tardiness, I was living in my grandmother’s basement for free and was still only just barely paying my bills. The only writing I did was in texts to friends. Usually long despairing ones.
This on the other hand is a choice. I prioritize writing and my mental health (these things do go together), I have a handful of you lovely readers, at least one manuscript half finished, and I control my work schedule and thus how much money I earn even if I choose to earn little. Working a few long shifts and being exhausted for another week is not the same as being burnt out forever.
And just when I needed it most, a client who’s been very busy but interested in working with me as a writing coach has finally been able to commit to our first session. It’s not enough cash to see myself into a dwelling of my own, but it does offer a glimmer of hope in the right direction.
By midday, the snow is coming down steady and thick. My car, snow-free this morning, is covered in inches.
PS. If anyone knows where I might attract readers I’d appreciate the feedback.
Invitation for Reflection
(these are big ones so take them slowly and be responsible for your well-being):
Effing up my financials is an old pattern for me considering I’ve struggled to work regular or well-paying jobs (it’s also a common neurodivergent theme). I often just haven’t had the money to live.
This particular situation feels different because I’m actually doing something that brings me a ridiculous amount of joy it just currently doesn’t bring in the money, but the shame I felt this week was more consuming than I have ever felt it. I cried a lot.
What old patterns have crept up on you even when you thought they were history? Can you step back and see where the situation might actually be a bit different than it has been before? Can you lean into any lessons you’ve learned or glints of power you may not have had in the past, but do now?Deep shame wells are the absolute worst and there are a lot of layers to heal. I sometimes feel like I put myself in this situation exactly because I needed to face this version of myself so that I could, hopefully, someday, sooner rather than later (?) move beyond it.
Noticing with no judgment, not turning away as we so frequently are inclined to do with shame, and writing about it is a step toward healing it. Brené Brown says airing our shames out with a trusted friend, putting a spotlight on them, is key to shutting them down, so whether you share it with someone or not, try writing a shame down in detail.
Write what happened or what keeps happening, write how it felt/feels, and how it feels when you think of it. Spend some time writing about whether or not the literal facts warrant such a deep well (i.e., I clearly feel I’m a bad person because I have no money. But wealth, or lack of it, is not an indication of whether or not I’m a kind, thoughtful, intelligent, caring (among other things) person).
Now burn that paper or tear it to shreds. Cry if you need to cry. Scream if you need to scream. Hold nothing back. Better out than in.
Sending love & thank you for sharing.