Nobody puts baillee in the corner

Before I even open my mouth (or in this case, keyboard), I know I’m better off than a lot of people. I have a mother who would stand at the gates of Hell for me. I have friends who have done and continue to do more for me than I can ever imagine or deserve. I know that (you that, Zorak know that). I’m not here for sympathy or any charity. I understand my privilege as a white woman who will never be openly murdered for my skin color. I’m a bisexual woman who has dated more men than women, and the worst thing to ever happen to me when coming out were sleazes asking me to make out with other girls for their own pleasure or if I was down for a threesome. Believe me, I get it. I’m not here to cry about how I’ve been so wrong by society and how life is so unfair. I promise. If you’ve made it this far, stick around for just a bit longer.

If you haven’t learned by now, I’ve always been better at articulating my feelings and emotions in writing. It’s been like that for as long as I can remember. I’ve always felt like I had to be the strong one to help my mom or my friends. I’ve always felt like my emotions were secondary to everyone else’s around me because there’s always someone who is worse off than me. I’ve simultaneously had some of the best and worst luck imaginable. I’ve been fortunate to do some of the absolute coolest shit on the planet, and I’ve been unfortunate enough to hit rock bottom more times than I can count. 

But talking about my past or any of the negative things in my life makes me worry about being perceived like Daria in “The Misery Chick” episode. That’s why I deflect with self-depreciating humor and jokes about the situation. I just say “I’m hanging in there!” and turn the conversation back to the person I’m talking to. I don’t want to be known as the girl who faces tragedy and is always going through a lot, and I don’t want to have to continuously explain why I am the way I am. I don’t want to use what I’ve been through as a crutch, but I don’t want to seem cold or distant for no reason. It’s difficult to express why I shut down and don’t text back and hold back every single emotion because I don’t want the sad and knowing looks, but I also don’t want to be seen as standoffish or uncaring when I don’t speak or respond to a message or retreat inside myself. It doesn’t matter if it’s a partner, my friends who have known me for years, or KP. That’s why I tend to get so hurt if a friend or someone fades away if I’m finally able to be vulnerable; I see it as being too fucked up or broken beyond repair. That’s why having to ask for help on rent has been so hard. Every time I have to ask for help, I think everyone will get sick of me and just leave. It requires me to expose that layer of vulnerability I so desperately try to bury. I think John Mulaney said it best in New in Town, “I’ll keep all my emotions right here, and then one day, I’ll die.” 

That’s me at any given time. That’s why I can seem numb or unresponsive. That’s why I sometimes snap or lash out. It’s all about self-preservation, baby. I don’t want to get hurt or drive people away because I’m a tragedy girl or have people feel like they can only talk about the bad stuff with me because I’m the misery chick. I don’t want to people to be afraid to give me their good news just because I’m in a bad spot, so I feel it’s better to not tell them how bad things are. 

I want to be able to open up and be able to not emotionally clam up. I want to be able to not feel so guilty asking for help I don’t sleep for days. I want to be able to say why certain things make me uncomfortable. I can write about pop culture all day long. I can draw comparisons between movies and the emotions they evoke and talk about whether or not Ferris Bueller was just a figment of Cameron’s imagination. I just can’t talk about my feelings. That seems so trite (cue Kathryn Merteuil’s entire speech to hide her coke-laden rosary), but it’s the truth. 

That’s why when I have to ask for help, it destroys me. When I ask for help on my rent, know it’s after I’ve genuinely left no stone unturned. I’ve asked family (who, in this case redacted their offer yesterday), and I’ve tried every assistance out there. My unemployment was rejected twice, and when I called, the person I spoke with cried with me when they told me their office had told them I would not be able to get benefits because they are supposed to be cutting down on the amount of people they approve, and they didn’t consider my mother’s cancer catastrophic enough. I’ve tried to think of anything I have to pawn. When I ask for help, please know it’s not out of laziness or for lack of trying. 

My apartment is the only physical place I’ve felt at home. I feel at home with my mom and my friends, but it’s the only physical place I’ve felt at home. It’s my little sanctuary, complete with a fridge covered in monster movie stickers and things no one else would find warmth or meaning in. It’s where I’ve watched movies until 2AM and cranked music while I’ve cleaned. It’s my place. 

I know asking for help isn’t sustainable, and I hate it more than anything, but I need help once more to keep my place. I know this is probably just seen as another cry for help from the misery chick to some people. A lot of people deserve the help more than I do. A lot of people don’t have the means to help. I understand that. Believe me, do I understand that. I just have to try to save my place. Just for a little bit longer. 

I know that people will take this and make it seem like I’m disingenuous or a freeloader or a ton of other things. I promise to all of you, I’m not. I’m someone who is trying to spend time with her mom and unfortunately has some really negative people surrounding her, who she happens to share blood with. People who spew out all kinds of hate and lies. People who tell me adulthood is learning you’ll never be happy again and tell you that you won’t amount to anything. People who I thought I could trust and who I thought had changed but are in the same place I left them over a decade ago. 

That’s the only reason I’m asking for help. I have to have my place to go back to when the dust settles, and yes, I want to bring KP with me more than anything, but life’s a lot more complicated than that, and it breaks my heart. She’s why I’ve stayed this long, and she’s why i’m staying until January because I want to be here to watch her completely overwhelm the doctors with how strong she is during her first round of chemo. 

But I can’t stay. My home isn’t here. I don’t feel comfortable or at ease here. That’s why I’ve been keeping my apartment. That’s why I couldn’t commit to moving here. That’s why KP held me while I cried last night and told me she knew why I had to go. If you can help, I’m willing to set up a loan or whatever I need to do to pay you back. Please just don’t let me lose my place. 

Signed, 

The Misery Chick