Thoughts On Being Worthless

Living At My Wit’s End

THE THING about how even one of the good days can almost break you is that when you have a good day like that, the next day is basically shot to hell, too.

I spent yesterday in something of a stupor, after getting myself our to do morning chores at the nonprofit, after which I tried also to get a couple of other things done there, but realized I had nothing left in the tank. I tried to buoy myself at least a bit by going out to breakfast in the neighborhood but of course one spot mysteriously and unhelpfully has been “cash only” for days now, and all the others are closed on Mondays.

So instead I went home and fell asleep on the living room couch for three hours in the middle of the afternoon.

By that night, I wouldn’t say I was despairing but I did have some pretty clear ideas on what all of this says about my future.

I wish I had anything to contribute to the world that would make people want to give me their money. I’m pretty sure I can’t even offer consistent labor to an employer. I’ve got nothing to give, but somehow still need to afford the world. It’s pretty great that the only way to figure one’s worth in a world that requires money to live is by whether or not you have a way to make it and I don’t think I do. So we know what that makes me.

Then I went to bed.

What prompted all of this is that I’d spent Monday having to recover from an only low-grade work day at the nonprofit on Sunday, which combined with how my last paying job went makes me pretty sure I have no way of ever generating income.

So, worthless.

That last employment attempt (a job placement through Vocational Rehabilitation after my diagnosis), only four hours a day, sent me into a distress spiral. And low-grade, lightweight days at the nonprofit require at least a day of recovery? That doesn’t translate into future employment very well.

I don’t have a single thing to offer that produces money. Whatever else I do have to offer is effectively useless without also being able to produce money.

My disability determination being that I’m not, Social Security expects me to produce my own income. When even good, low-grade, lightweight days at the nonprofit prompt the need for at least a day of recovery, any thoughts about working send me into flashbacks to that job placement. The idea of having to walk into another new workplace and try again makes me feel like I have, to re-use a term, some sort of low-grade PTSD.

I’m tired of looking around and everything feeling like it has to be a fight, and fights that I’m mostly being set up to lose.

.   .   .

Disclaimer: This is not a “cry for help” or meant to provoke concerns about “suicidal ideation”. I am not worthless as a human being, and have no interest in not being here, but being here requires money, and apparently I have nothing to provide or offer to make any, and I am at some point going to run out of it, and I am at my wit’s end.

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Bix Mediocre

Hello. My name is Bix. This is my mediocre life. #ActuallyAutistic #LateDX