I know why not having money makes you want to kill yourself. Because people don’t treat you well, when you don’t have money. I’ve watched strangers friends and family all react to the arc of the last few years of my life very differently. Seeing myself in their eyes has distorted the view I’ve held of myself at times. As if, having a job and money were prerequisite for compassion or respect.
Earlier, I’d reached out to a few friends asking for help with gas. No one responded. No one. I quickly crumpled up and trashed the idea that I was being ignored on purpose. Not because it was untrue, but because regardless of its validity, that particular truth wasn’t going to stop my anxiety attack or bring any kind of relief.
Still, the collective silence aided my paranoia. I was over myself. I was so ready to be the person who never had to ask anyone for anything in regards to my survival. I yelled at God, “I’m over this stupid fucking lesson WHY WONT YOU LET ME TAKE CARE OF MYSELF”
And I don’t know if it’s the truth, but perhaps I’ve been too humble all along. Perhaps in my carrying the weight of responsibility for my assault I was stopping myself from manifesting the very best. I was energetically punishing myself and it wasn’t humility at all, it was punitive and prohibitive and for that, Jessica, I am so sorry. I didn’t know.