Lottery plans

Getting rich may seem like the answer to all their problems to so many people but, at the same time, isn’t “getting somewhere” kind of what keeps us going?

For instance, at this point of my life, I am trying desperately to find a job that allows me to move to Montreal. If I were rich I’d just… go. Weird.

So, if that happened, what would be the shit I would still get up to do? Do I even know?

What moves me? Who in the Lord’s name am I?

When I was 15 I think I was that person. Well, not the rich person. I was the person who had a ton of free time to do the things she wanted to do and not get paid for it.

It got me thinking.

What a different person I would be if I only did what I wanted to do.

Like I did when I was 15, I would get up to draw.

I would most likely learn how to play the piano.

I would stay up late. I hate sleeping early so much, my college friends kept asking if I was on cocaine. The answer is no, by the way.

I would live in the most beautiful city in the world, or maybe in NY, in a small apartment not proportional to my wealth just because it would feel cozy.

Speaking of cozy, I would buy the house from home alone, make it look just like the movie and turn it to an orphanage so special that kids would feel welcome and safe there. I would also probably adopt them all, since I would be so rich.

And, at the end of the day, I would lie down with my children and watch classic disney cartoons… just like I am doing right now. Except, there would be a few less worries in my mind.

I should really play that lottery.

Today, I made a little drawing istead. It’s not much but it’s kind of a step torward the life I wanna live.

Lottery or no lottery, I’ll find a way to check the items on my list.

I’m still 10

I remember this one day, when I was 10 years old. It was hot and I was getting ready to go to school after lunch. My dad had made me beef and rice. It was so good, I can still taste it. But it was just another day, really. Still, it remember it vividly because when I was walking down the road I looked back and saw my dad waving at me from the window.

I cried.

Not because I was a brat and wanted things done my way. I cried because it hurt to leave him. I cried because I knew he didn’t want to say goodbye either.  I wanted to stay there and enjoy our lunch a little longer. I hated that I couldn’t be where I wanted to be and I knew that one day, all I would have left from him would be the memories. And they felt like so few.

He was crying too.

Twenty-five years passed and, this morning, when I left the house, my daughters asked me not to go. They cried too. They wanted to be with me; and I wanted to be with them. Play their little games, do their little puzzles. Nothing fancy. We’re not fancy.

I just didn’t wanna leave. Again. Inside, I am still that 10 year old girl. 

I promised them mommy would find a different job that would allow her to stay home a bit more. But, don’t get me wrong, this isn’t something I’m doing just because they cried. Kids cry (so, I’ve heard).  It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time as I can feel these steel structures sucking the life out of me – I might have mentioned this 1 or 120 times here.

I think I am smart enough to organize this life of mine as my single goal at life right now is to sit on my couch, look around, and wish for nothing to be different. I’ve got the major stuff figured out. But the puzzle is not complete yet.

I’m getting there.

I cannot talk about what happened in Florida yesterday. I just can’t handle this fucking world.

It wasn’t schizophrenia.

“You are depressed”, they said.  The word “schizophrenia” was also mentioned.

So, they ignored everything I had to say. I am not blaming them… I too would ignore a crazy person. Once you are labeled “crazy”, people just stop listening.

Still, I gave them the benefit of the doubt and I was totally fine with accepting that maybe I was depressed and maybe I was a very lucid slightly schizophrenic person. I was not in denial, I just wanted to finally give it a name and get the right pill for it. Try to fix it. Fix me.

I tried what they said, but it didn’t help. And my stomach hurt.

A whole year went by. Different pills, different therapies, different doctors. And my stomach still hurt.

It was my turn to stop listening.

I did not feel depressed. I felt pushed down. Exhausted. But, most of all, I had an urge to live. I wanted to laugh and be happy. I wanted to not care. It couldn’t be depression. Right?

Right. Actually.

I focused on my stomach pain (it was starting to get weird).

I asked the doctor to get tested for what I thought I had – after I googled my f*** fingertips off. She said I didn’t have it. It took her good 3 months to finally let me get tested.

I had worms.

Yes, worms. Microscopic ones (not to gross anyone out…). I had them for so long they – most likely – released a substance to my brain that mimics depression – so, I’ve read.

And the reason I believe that is because after 3 days of worm medication, I had no more panic attacks. 3 days… and I felt like my old self again.

Right now, I’m just happy all the people I see around me are actually real. If I think about it, the most schizophrenic thing I do is writing here as if I as talking to someone even though no one reads this shit.

Something to think about.

Night, guys.

fight club