I have been wallowing. My wallow is a fairly specific wallow made of negative self statements about failure and thriving.

There are ideas rattling around in here.

The notion of our personal story and others as actors in our stories.
The notion of claiming my personal identities and making them known.
The notion of ideas and power and the power of ideas as specifically located within the standing rock dispute.

And others.

There are things I need to do. Once I have a cheque to deposit into my bank account I must phone my bank and plea mercy to have them redact certain insufficient funds fees. This may or may not go well. But spotify be a scurvy mistress and I be hooked on her sweet teat of musical availability.

I must phone the canada revenue services line and request information for my T4s because I have been a hobo without a proper address and they have sent my information to likely a very pissed off person whose life I am no longer part of who hates the reminder of my existence.

I must apply for welfare because it is a step to PWD status.

It bothers me to no end that I’m going to end up back on the system in any form be it welfare or pwd. I have been consistently angry about the steps I am having to and will have to take to become even remotely independent.

PWD status would help me return to school if I ever get to the point where it wouldn’t be sheer folly.

Regardless of PWD status or welfare or anything; I have a cleaning contract. I can keep this in my name on welfare as well as on PWD. I need to put up a few notices on boards locally for a cleaning lady to come in and use someone’s cleaning supplies at their house, 20$ an hour. I’ll deal with declaring or stopping that work if I have to for a time on welfare if I get there.

The anger I have about the fact that I’m going to be a cleaning lady on PWD for a long time before I can be anything that otherwise utilizes my talents or skills … bothers me. It feels so remedial. And a lot like spinning my wheels in place. Except it really isn’t. Its clever thinking to solve a problem that I have no help with. I do have a degree of help in this in that my parents are cleaners and have been most of my life.

But it reeks of class hierarchy to me.

Probably one of the most painful things in my life was one of my friend’s kids finding out her mom was paying me to arrange and clean up stuff (I think because she could have done that except it would have been done to teenager level not to me level) after a party and assuaged herself with the reminder that I was like super good at cleaning and stuff…. it just. Cut me down. Here’s this kid whose done more cool things and been more places than I have in my entire life who would go on and do more things and go more places than I would ever get to go reminding herself that I’m of the servant class… This isn’t at all what it was. In any way. And my poor reaction wasn’t warranted. This is also one of the most empathetic and cool kids I know. What she doesn’t know is that I often get paid in weed and weed by products. Eh. Kids. I don’t seem to be able to work with them. But I do adore them. It just, sliced. I am good at cleaning.

I feel like I would have been better to create my own cleaning company right out of high school… except I had none of the skills or support to do so. My mom was largely occupied dealing with my dad’s bullshit. Another thing I deeply resent him for.

I feel like attending university is a folly for which I will pay the rest of my life. Because I failed… when I had no support and no understanding of how to operate on the scale I was operating. Because I was too stupid to realize I had no ability to operate there… I knew I was different but I didn’t know I was deficient until it was too late.