{Fata Organa} Good Timber Does Not Grow With Ease

Things have been erratic lately. This week, I finally got my retirement savings refunded to me. This was a good thing because I needed it and it was a lot more than I had anticipated getting back. It was also a bad thing because now I don't have $30k in a retirement plan accumulating interest. Back on the good, I got enough back to pay off a good portion of my credit card debt and give myself enough to continue paying bills, while saving most of it for a possible downpayment on a tiny house park model I'd like to build.

I thought that maybe things in my life were finally picking up when I also got a call for a job interview. It was false hope. The day after the interview, I got the call that they "went with someone else". I don't know why I thought this would be different than other interviews. As soon as I tell them I'm disabled and ask what the majority of the job duties will entail, that's usually when they end the interview and I get the rejection or no callback at all. This isn't anything new to people with disabilities, I'm positive. Unfortunately for me, I'm still not used to being disabled and all this discrimination and bullshit is new to me and I still find myself surprised and hurt by it. Well, I'm sure you never really get to the point where it doesn't hurt you but maybe there's a time when it stops surprising you?

I think not getting hired for jobs that I'm over qualified for (as far as my time working on skill sets and experience) wouldn't be as frustrating if I was selling any of my art. I haven't sold anything to anyone who hasn't bought something from me before. Now, that's not at all a disparaging comment on the people who have purchased my art. It is a comment on how I can't expect the same two people to buy all of my artwork every time I have work to sell. This isn't the time of an artist working for one patron family and being set for their career. This is a time where you need to be able to get your work out in front of as many eyes as possible to make sales.

I can't even get more than 3 or 4 retweets on my ads for my work. I have over 700 "followers" on Twitter, and none of the people that consistently keep helping me out with the retweets are any of the people I've actually met in person. That is so demoralizing but, again, not surprising considering how many of those people treated me after the car wreck.

This has definitely made me wonder a lot about why I'm doing art. It was so easy to just do the work because I wanted to do the work, and just let it pile up in boxes and not think about what to do with it when I had an income from a different source. Without that income source? It makes me think that anyone who ever said my work was good was full of shit. If it were good, people would be willing to buy it or actually share it with others because they like it. Maybe I'm thinking of what people do about the things they like or the people they like the wrong way? It's not like I have a lot of human interaction since getting rushed out of my previous job like a criminal. When I post things like this, I feel like I've just moved from talking to myself out loud to talking to myself digitally.

Maybe I'm just not likable in person or online. That's completely possible and probable.

I think the one thing that happened this week that really pushed me over the edge was hearing that my stepbrother, the one who called in a bomb threat on our high school during my senior year, the one who made me nonexistent after my mom married his dad because everything had to be about him (and then about my brother when it wasn't about him), the one who had his rich grandparents hand him everything is going to have a kid. He's never had to work for anything. His grandparents got him his job and career. They got him his houses without mortgages. And now he and his equally privileged, spoiled wife are having a kid. 

I honestly thought about just taking all my meds last night. Every single pill I could get my hands on. Toki put his paw on me and just looked at me and I felt guilty for considering leaving him here by himself.

I just don't understand why I'm here. What's the point. I'm clearly worthless and there are so many others who have died that deserved more and better, and here I am just wasting oxygen. I don't feel like good timber. It feels like the stronger the wind, the more I'm just beaten away.