Organizing the Spice Rack

Hello Invisible Audience,

 

Elizabeth Gilbert said once that the first step to writing a book was organizing the spice drawer in your kitchen. 

 

In my case, the steps it took to sit down to write to you were many. I had to finish unpacking boxes from when I moved in May. I had to shred a bunch of files I didn’t need to keep from 10 years ago when I unpacked those boxes. I needed to clean my house and make food for lunches for the week. I had to organize my bookshelf by author. And this morning, I had to reconcile my books for the two businesses I don’t really run anymore so that I’m ready for tax season. Oh yeah, and I had to get through my first semester of grad school, and take my car in multiple times because suddenly the gas tank wouldn’t let me put gas in it. Despite the fact that I drove 7 hours round trip in the pouring rain, the new battery I got for my laptop hasn’t kept the thing from draining to dead in a couple hours, so I’ve spent far too many spare minutes with customer service trying to figure out what the fuck is going wrong while every single one of those customer service people has tried to sell me a new laptop instead.

 

God I miss writing, Invisible Audience. I told someone the other day that there is no doubt in my mind what I am on earth to do, and it is to write. Which feels silly to say, when AI has taken over that little pastime for everyone. When I am working so hard doing everything but writing. But there’s also a very important reason why I had to do all those things I talked about before I got to the part where I could actually write to you, Invisible Audience.

 

It's because this isn’t fucking working.

 

Six little words. They look so nonchalant, don’t they? The way they’re just marching across the page, as if I didn’t spend months procrastinating because it felt so hard to write them. As if the courage it took to type those words, one letter at a time, didn’t include some ice cream multiple weekends of anxiety and some walks and swims and who-knows-what-else while I first tried to feel my feelings and now to write them out loud, to you, after months of radio silence.

 

Because this isn’t fucking working.

 

If I’m going to be honest, it feels like I’ve been in an abusive relationship with the American Way my whole life and it’s finally coming to the point where I’m admitting that the relationship is dead in the water. What am I saying? I’ve flirted with other countries multiple times—even found some happiness abroad—only to be pulled back to what is familiar. But I’ve just spent 460ish words to get to the point, so here it is:

 

I am working part time. I am trying to go to school part time. I cannot afford to live off the amount I make, mostly because of medical expenses, which went up $600 a month when I got my job and was making more money than I had been. I cannot afford to pay for school with what I make, and despite applying for about 30 scholarships, I didn’t get enough to even cover a single semester’s worth of tuition, so I am relying on student loans if I want to do this program. They are already accruing interest. I tried working a second job during the semester, and almost wore myself back into chronic fatigue. I went to the dentist and they said the reason my gums were bleeding so much was probably because of stress. 

 

But here’s the thing, Invisible Audience: people do this shit all the time. People work full time and go to school full time. They take out student loans to go to school. And if they talk about how much that sets everything back—as far as saving for retirement, having time to enjoy their lives, even managing a healthy balance—it must be in rooms that I’m not in. Because it doesn’t fucking work. 

 

It may be because I am trying to do this to create better financial stability, but here I am, forty-four years old, wondering how exactly I’m supposed to save anything substantial for retirement when I am trying to pay off debt from both student loans and the time I spent trying to keep afloat with chronic fatigue. 

 

Do you see why I feel gaslit, Invisible Audience? When I was shredding those files I mentioned earlier, I found medical bills from 10 years ago—because, if I’m honest, there really hasn’t ever been a time when there weren’t medical expenses. Trying to juggle all these pieces at once is actually impossible, yet even admitting that makes me feel like I’ve failed in some important way. What about my boot straps? What’s wrong with me that I can’t seem to pull myself out of this huge, deep, messy hole with them? I am already trying to figure out what needs to change to make my life more manageable. But damn it if it doesn’t feel like my choices are a Catch 22. Do I leave the town and community I love so much to try and find somewhere new in a different country, where medical costs—and probably school costs—won’t be as high? Or do I stay here, try to make it work, and just pretend like I’m not about to drown?

 

Love and spicy kisses,

Morgan