I need a button that says, "I went to Cal, and all I got was this lousy sweatshirt".

So, its been 2 weeks since we did the big move and I'm still trying to make things happen, primarily work and housing. Its been a total nightmare. The move was a nightmare in itself, and being homeless is an even bigger nightmare. For the art of moving is only technically a "transition" when it results in moving into another home... or moving into something else. It just ain't happenin'. I haven't found any jobs that are the right fit. Right fit meaning: pay, hours, location and of course something I can tolerate doing. It must be something I can at least tolerate because I'm too mentally unstable for bullshit, as if ya'll didn't already know that.

Not enough income leaves us without a place to call home. Grandma took us in, but I'm not comfortable there. She doesn't have enough physical space for us, I'm convinced that she doesn't really want to share the little space she does have, factor in about $70 in gas a week (if I planned on returning after taking Miss J to school), and her kids, again, I'm too mentally unstable to continue there for too much longer. I looked into a local housing program specific to single mothers, but fell $50 short of their income requirement, and the director of the program, while she said she may be able to make an exception, seemed to pass judgment, inquiring as to why it has taken me "so long to finish my academic program". I guess I wasn't aware that 2 extra years, with a child and no help qualified as "so long", but I guess. I refrained from inquiring about her elitist attitude and reminding her that asking stupid questions about my academic program was not a part of the application process. Its always interesting to encounter people when seeking any kind of social service or assistance. You are always viewed as a further drain on an already weakened economy, especially if you are seeking services as a black single mother. The fact that you may have given your blood, sweat and tears to a University, and will probably make a shit load more money than they do one day, never really comes into play... until they blatantly try to railroad you and you have to set them straight.

Needless to say, this is not an enjoyable experience. When I first entered this new state of being, I took a look back at my friend Sharyn's documented homeless experience, which helped me sorta prepare and not feel as shitty. Other things that help me feel like less of a failure are the comforts of knowing that I am not the only one with this particular experience (leaving school and entering a realm of a whole lotta nothin'), and the support of good friends.

To be continued...

In my last post, those of you who commented seemed to find a happiness radiating from my words. That's cool.

Execumama said, "Your Happy just spilled right on through, and I am now reminding Self that feeling good is a CHOICE, and I choose it!" That's cool too.

Truth is. I'm not happy. Not even a little bit. And even my momentary contentment is a facade, because once back indoors, out from under the spotlight of expectation, that "Happy" mask gets taken off and thrown against the wall, falls to the floor, where it lies in tiny shattered pieces, until I am forced to have to try to piece it back together again to face another day. Forced to wear it in order to make the people around me feel more comfortable, because people don't have the energy and patience to understand. Yes, by no means is it easy to deal, to put up with, to give attention to someone who is always unhappy, and by no means do those of us who battle various mental illnesses and conflicts within ourselves that churn the waters of our unhappiness, expect family, friends, peers and lovers to deal with, to put up with, to give attention to our shit 100% of the time. However, it would mean a world of difference to just be understood.

I've found myself incredibly exhausted, run down and resentful. My back and shoulders no longer stand erect, and sometimes, I can't keep my head from hanging low. My spine curves under the pressure to "make it", to measure up, to not disappoint, to be everything I was suppose to be (which is funny because there are times when I don't even know who I really am). Its also funny how people are always saying stuff like, "you can lead a horse to the water but you can't make him drink." I guess putting the water into a bowl and raising it to the horse's mouth so that he may drink isn't an option. Its just not understood that some people have been fighting so hard and for so long that they just don't have any fight left in them. What happens to those people? Why is that concept so taboo? Instead of viewing those people as unwilling to help themselves, perhaps its more productive to ask yourself what lies beneath.

Its where I'm at. I literally don't have any fight left in me and I'm resentful. Resentful that I have to go at this all alone. Not just in terms of raising my child, but in terms of life in general. I am going at life alone. Yes, I just gusted about the amazing women around me, and part of the reason they are so amazing is their ability to understand, however, we are all in this rat race to measure up to society's rules and even women in their 30s and 40s are still working toward beating the odds; working toward proving themselves to people who are looking for them to fail. I am resentful that I've sacrificed a great deal and am not reaping the benefits. I am resentful that in 4 days me and my child will be homeless. I am resentful that my great-grandmother didn't consider putting me up for adoption after my mother died so that maybe I would have had a chance of experiencing the simple joy of having parents, a real family. I am resentful, that at 25, my life resembles that of someone who has about 2 or 3 decades on me. These should not be the experiences of a 25 year old. But yet they are. They are all mine. Alone.