Hyperactive Tension

The last post I made was about the death of my biological father. That was mid April. Today is the first day of June. I really should blog more often.

I have a job now. Let’s call it a role in a reality TV show that only those with access to the company’s closed circuit TVs can view. I’m Cashier 3. I don’t even have a name badge. I will be working a total of 25hrs/wk at not much more than minimum wage. Of course, that’s better than being on welfare, right? Except I’ll still partially be on welfare, because I’m not earning a sustainable living.

To make matters more complicated, I’m still required to comply with the paper trail required of me by the state workforce office, because my job is not a full-time job and my schedule cannot be verified by my word alone.

I thought I was supposed to work today, but home office of my new place of employment has not yet sent permissions to the local store for me to complete required computer training modules, and I’ve already spent three days doing hands-on training which is technically meant to be done after said computer training modules have been completed. On an unrelated note, I’m hypertensive today.

Since moving back to Texas in January, I have applied at every university and college, every public, private, parochial, and charter school, and every prison, state hospital, or other alternative adult education facility within the entire state of Texas and parts of Louisiana. I have had the pleasure of reading innumerable formulaic rejection letters. I am still waiting to hear back from two hopefuls I interviewed for last week–one an adjunct position at a college that’s a 3.5hr drive one-way and the other a full-time position at a college here in town.

Meanwhile, my bank account has about $3 in it. Maybe less. I’m too scared to check. I don’t get paid by the company I now work for until two weeks from this coming Friday.

I hate that I live in a world where money is necessary. I hate that I can’t eat when I’m hungry, sleep when I’m tired, and subsist on my own merit. I hate that I, and by proxy my children, must be shoved into a box society built which is just small enough to be emotionally suffocating.

I’m so deep in a self-deprecation cycle lately that I can’t tell where I end and the darkness begins. I keep randomly being reminded of the could have, would have, should have and the why did I.

I’m poor. Self-doubt monster reminds me that I have always been terrible with money, that I make terrible choices, that I’ve wasted so much on this or that, that I owe all these people, that I chose the wrong career to pursue, that I’m not trying hard enough, that no one would ever buy my written words, that I’d better pretend to be happy being Cashier #3, because $100,000 + in student loan debt and three college degrees isn’t putting me any closer to anything better than I could have gotten without all that trouble.

I’m overweight. Yes, I could force myself to follow a proper diet. Yes, I could exercise. Maybe I would lose the weight. Maybe I would feel better, physically and emotionally. Self-doubt monster fills my head with a myriad of excuses and venomous factoids.

I’m lonely. People point out that I have children. That doesn’t equate not being lonely. The love I have for my babies isn’t the same as spousal love and isn’t meant to be. Self-doubt monster reminds me of all the people I’ve rejected over the years for whatever reason. Self-doubt monster reminds me of all the mistakes I’ve made which depreciate my value. Self-doubt monster says no one wants used merchandise and no one devout in his faith is going to accept me, no matter how many prayers I say.

I think you get the picture, so I’ll spare you the rest of the bitter details of my inner monologue.

I’m not sure how my blog, once so full of inspirational ranting, rave reviews, and overtly racy slice-of-life episodes has turned into the textual equivalent of an art gallery full of demotivational posters. I’m not sure how Ashley Ann circa 2005 was so much cooler than Ashley Ann circa 2015. I’m not sure why my great American novels are still wasting space on an external hard drive I rarely access due to the limitations of technology at my immediate disposal (or whatever excuse I can come up with each week).

I’m supposed to be positive and uplifting at this point in my life. I’m supposed to wax poetically about all that I’ve accomplished while telling others that stumbling blocks are just milestones which haven’t been up-righted yet. Since I can’t come up with anything inspirational at the moment, I’ll leave you with my current favorite scripture, which I often read to my children during thunderstorms:

Book of Mormon, Alma 26:6–Yea, they shall not be beaten down by the storm at the last day; yea, neither shall they be harrowed up by the whirlwinds; but when the storm cometh they shall be gathered together in their place, that the storm cannot penetrate to them; yea, neither shall they be driven with fierce winds whithersoever the enemy listeth to carry them.

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