I did a stupid thing and I got a part time job. A basic 9-5 type of job. A cashier/bagger combination down at a local grocery store in the next town over. I haven’t held a job in over two years. Not since the wheelchair, the Schizoaffective Disorder, the seizures, and the chronic pain, and the suicide attempt. It’s only about fifteen hours a week, barely part time.
I did a stupid thing and I got a part time job.
I told my boss I have to take meds three times a day and can’t work past three in the afternoon. Because I still need time to go home and cry at how bad my body hurts. Time to come home and electrocute myself into numbness with my tens unit. Time to choke down too many ibuprofen. Time to spend too long in the shower. Time to do my therapy prescribed stretches. Time to come down off the high of hearing derogatory voices all day. Even after staying faithful to my antipsychotic for almost two years, I still hear voices constantly. A droning noise of voices. A sinister John Carpenter amalgam of sound. Every time I try to do something good for myself the voices are always right there. Always reminding me that I’m going to fail.
Can I even handle a job?
I’d much prefer to stay home and stare out the big bay window at the apple trees. 50/50 it will rain or shine but I can always feel the rain in my head regardless. Psychosis pulling my soft brain apart like sticky cobwebs.
You might ask what it’s like to live with chronic mental and physical illnesses. I’ll let you know what it’s like. It’s like your body and mind are fighting a war against the one thing meant to keep them alive. It feels like you were born to be destroyed.
I did a stupid thing and I got a part time job. Will my illnesses ceasefire? I doubt it. Chronic illness waits for no healing. A ravaging train with no breaks. It’s an unwelcome guest in a body I didn’t even get a chance to learn to love.