Fight or Plight
Am I gonna hang, or hang on?
Flying dreams of yore
now despair, nightmare and hate.
My wings have been clipped.
A year ago, I was a reasonably happy person who thought he was finally getting his shit together. I was employed full-time, intermittently grateful and joyous beyond measure, and then confused, overwhelmed, and afraid to ask questions - it being my sixth year, as I would surely face the derisive and callous "You don't know that YET?!" or "Seriouhsssleeeaaaayyyyhhh?".
But, I loved my job and the very special kids I served with all my heart. I can say with all the literal and unyielding honesty for which I am *known* that I would have jumped in front of a bus to protect any one of those beautiful little kisses from God.
I was beginning to kinda sorta get ADA mandated accomodations, and felt that my boss liked me, respected my unflinching devotion to truth and fact, admired my rapport with ALL of the kids, and whom I thought had my back.
I was working very hard, both at my ob, and in addressing the myriad mood and neurological disorders, and learning and executive function deficits. I had finally confided to my psychiatrist that I had been struggling with increasing levels of anxiety - serious when I first met him, but at this point near crippling, and he prescribed klonazepam, a benzodiazepine more commonly know as Clonopin. The med was sorta the point, but more - I had come clean with a very important guardian of my health.
I thought I was indeed on my way to health, productivity, creativity and happiness.
A year later, I am homeless ('though staying with my father - and I am 41 years old! - but I do not know for how long), have been viciously, callously and illegally terminated from the job I had hoped to have until the end of my working days, collecting food stamps, waiting to hear back about unemployment and SSDI benefits, and have just recently and narrowly avoided being charged with criminal harassment for stupidly believing in the Constitution and thus reporting my story truthfully and without violating any confidentiality mores, contractually, legally, OR ethically in the public square known as...yep...Facebook.
I have, in the past 13 weeks alone been voluntarily "placed" for openly confessing my suicidal plan and the lengths to which I had already prepared for it, and upon a crushing betrayal by yet another Judas I thought was my friend, and who DID know how precarious was my emotional state, I did indeed try some 68 times to cut a main - failing each time as my balls had betrayed me, too.
And now I'm here, "working my (safety/mh) program", trying to rebuild a life, the inevitable trials of which I'm not sure I have the strength or patience to bear.
Do I believe in hope? I do not know. I'm not sure I dare. And I would still jump in front of a bus. But for me.
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