What!? Dreams May Come?

(Re-post from 4/12/15)

But what happens when you’ve stopped dreaming? Well, you move to Wonderland and either sink or swim. The problem is when you’re feeling ducky. You know, a duck on water looks absolutely serene. But if you look under the surface you see his/her feet paddling non-stop just to stay afloat.

Daisy DuckCall me Daisy, how’s it goin’?

To say that I am tired would be an understatement. I am exhausted. All the time. I have to work credit to have enough leave to be able to go to the million doctor appointments I have to go to, so I’m too tired to even want to do something when I’m not at work. Asking for the time off is stressful in and of itself. Management has no problem approving it, if they see the request. So you have to hound them to make sure that they get it—because I’m not under the impression that I’m the center of their workloads. I hate to remind people of things. So yes, stressed.

One of my doctors suggested that I apply for disability. All I could do was look at him thinking, “Really?” Finally I just said that I don’t qualify. I know the rules, I don’t. Plus, I have really gotten used to having a roof over my head, food on the table, clothes on my back… Back home, you get no REAL help from the government, but it’s tropical. You can sleep anywhere and, except for the fucking lizards, you wouldn’t risk much, especially not hypothermia. Here, they’ll give you food stamps if you qualify, but you have to wait 2+ years to get low/no income housing, during which time you are exposed to a lot more than hypothermia. But it’s legal to get high on weed, so I’m guessing some people find it worth it. Disability would pay me barely enough money to pay only for rent. The low-income housing is exquisite, though. Well worth the wait if you can survive until they place you…

Needless to say, the shit that you have to deal with is much more disabling—at this point, for me—than the MS. The MS has actually been treating me much better than most of the things that I deal with. Granted, some of the stress comes from not sharing my “condition” with everybody and their grandmother—especially at work. Because people like to talk out of their ass and it makes me want to punch them in the face. I can’t, for two reasons” 1. I like my job, and 2. orange is NOT my color. Assault, aggravated assault, and all that other happy shit, is not on my bucket list.

But I’ll tell you what. Since I really don’t see any room to grow at work, I may as well continue to do what I’m doing at home. At least there is home. I just have to figure out how long it will take for my “condition” to be considered stable.

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