Though I am sure that most of the population would be too embarrassed to admit such a thing, I’ve decided the truth is nothing to be ashamed of because it is the way it is.

Went to Hoyt and Schermerhorn for the food stamps and “cash assistance” thing I thought I was eligible for. Then got sent to Dekalb, as that office serves my zip code. According to their eligibility parameters I am eligible for food stamps, yet not so much for cash assistance, in other words not at all. Which is totally cool. I mean, okay, it’s nice that such programs do exist, but I am totally cool getting help with food. Everyone at the office was less scary and much more helpful than my imagination led me to believe. It was not crowded, people were not mean, and although I definitely stuck out, it was not the experience I thought I would have. After all is said and done, I do get $91 a month to eat with, which is nothing to scoff at. What is worth scoffing at is their chart which allows for a $400 a month rent expense which means, according to their calculations, I am then already spending $201 a month on food, outside of my assistance. Which obviously isn’t the case, given that rent in the burough, the city, the area is well above $400 a month on average. It’s probably double that, IF you have a roommate. Either way, after I finished with Mrs. Smith, I went back to Hoyt Schermerhorn and got my card, then took the subway back.

It’s pretty humanizing, having to do things like this. I kept finding myself apologizing throughout the day, for not knowing what the hell I was doing. Because I have always worked. My first job I paid taxes on was a job I had as a receptionist in 9th grade, working for a clothing company after school every day from 3 to 6 pm. Then I was the assistant to the midget, I mean little person chiropractor where I did temperature scans of nasty backs all day after school. Then I worked at Au Bon Pain, then a White Hen Pantry, then a car dealership, then at Benetton, then temp work, then the Bank. And then New York.

I never got fired from any job I had until I moved to New York. It’s like this messed up coming of age thing, to get fired here. It happens for no reason a lot of the time, and sometimes yes, you deserve it. I can only say I deserved it one time, during the dot bomb era, where I traded my interest in the job in for disillusionment. So, I deleted every voice mail that came into the phone without listening to it, and then began deleting every email that came in without reading it. They never found out, and I did it for three months. That job I totally deserved losing, though I got laid off, not fired. And I didn’t collect unemployment after it, I worked. But there were and will probably be more occasions where I would collect unemployment happily–preferably in the summer of course. I’ve been working nearly straight through the past 14 years. And the breaks were needed, stealthy when they came, and happily exploited, if not only in my own mind.

This whole medical break thing is a totally different animal. You think and imagine what it would be like to be free every day for months. What you would do if you had that time. And then you get sick, and you think about other things. Like, will I be okay with this, when will I be normal again, how many scars will I have to get used to again, what is the point, why don’t I care about doing anything but watching Dr. Phil and Tyra every day?

I guess it’s like being but on a perpetual pause. You don’t want to start anything because you can’t finish it right now, and you don’t know if you will even get another chance to finish it. And you know you should be doing this, or that, or reading writing, painting. But when you put pressure on yourself to do these things, you imagine it would be much easier to swallow all of your pills at one time than actually be able to accomplish anything.

All I know is I am a Renaissance kind of girl. I do lots of things and probably will for the rest of my life. I made E promise he would take me to Europe later this year since I haven’t been anywhere. I want to drink wine in Italy, paint in Amsterdam, dance in Prague, shop in Spain. I want a pretty and oil painted kind of thing to close the year out with.

This, now? This shit is Tempera paint. That chalky cheap junk that dries up overnight and smears all over your clothes when you’re not looking close enough.

I’d even trade the tempera in for water colors. Or acrylic. At least acrylic leaves it’s ringy skins on the edges to remind you it dries fast. But oil. The first time I used oil. I can’t explain to you the freedom. It’s like making a pretty and wiping the slate clean. But it gets better every time.

Hopefully like me.