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My mother and I were sitting in the waiting area of the Food Stamp office (although the more modern terms would SNAP Center and EBT instead of a welfare office and food stamps, you get blank looks when you say “EBT”. Everybody knows what you’re talking about when you say “food stamp.”) on a pair of tiny metal chairs with folding desks attached as if they’d been stolen from a particularly impoverished school. Like death, and taxes, it’s inevitable that I have to recertify and prove my poverty to keep getting benefits and, also like death and taxes, it also seems inevitable that the second my carefully collected paperwork leaves my hands, it all gets fucked up. So I’ve gotten used to having to make at least one follow-up-and-fix-it phone call and/or visit. This year’s fuck-up was a doozy; labeling my paperwork under an entirely different name altogether. And while this visit seemed to partially fix the problem, it’s a work in progress.

“I was going to help you,” my mom says. “If your benefits had been taken away, you know. I was going to drag you to every food pantry and center I go to.” I can imagine her trying to tuck my bulk under her arm like a stray kitten going to the vet. It’s very much like her to steamroll ahead trying to “fix” what she sees as my problems, while never once asking me what kind of help I actually need.

“Oh, no.” I groan.

“Just because you think you’re above it all-“

“That’s not it, Mom.” It never is. I’ve been to food pantries and centers. My mom makes it a habit, going to several each week until all the boxes and bulk bags of dried food pile up in her hallway. A lot of the dried stuff winds up in my cabinet eventually – or it did. After finding three rice packages full of bugs (both dead and alive) and getting sick multiple times over various items, I had to put my foot down and ask her to stop giving me stuff. Sometimes the goods are genuinely good, but my stomach tends to be sensitive after 20+ year of medication and I’m not very adventurous in my food choices. But apparently, not enjoying mild food poisoning every month makes me a snob.

She jabs a finger at me. “You need to know how to take care of yourself. You can’t live on this.” she declares, waving around the room. Then the tirade comes, and my ears mostly switch off. At least, they do until she says, “You could never have a career at your age. You have nothing.”

I got up from the table. “I’m leaving.”

“This is why I can’t tell you anything. You’re too damn sensitive!”

I spent the next days fuming over it; what kind of parent would ever look their kid in the face and tell them they had nothing? Obviously, the same kind who decides how to fix her kid’s problems without any of their input. The same kind of parent who routinely insulted the kid’s clothing growing up and picked out their outfits well into their teens. The same kind that would tell their kid that every person they were friends with was only out to take advantage of them. The same kind who dug through their kid’s backpack daily and told her coworkers that her kid was a devil worshiper and who 110% believed they were entitled to know everything about their kid’s sexual history – even when that kid is now 40, mind you. The past year and a half I’ve been working on better handling my mom’s rampant toxicity and finding ways to detach myself emotionally and physically from her. It’s been messy and ugly, but I’m proud of the progress.

Still.

Still.

The anger faded fast enough, but I was left this heavy feeling on my shoulders. Despite the dumpster-fire worthy words she chose, I know what she was trying to say. I’m 40 with a spotty work history whose only income comes from disability and the occasional side gig. There are times I worry about stability and taking care of myself too. I don’t have any of the traditional milestones that most people associate with adulthood, which is maybe why my mother persists in seeing and treating me like I’m 6 years old.

Still.

To be honest, I’ve spent years trying different types of jobs, but in the end the constant pain and fatigue would just catch up with me. I couldn’t even hold down a volunteer job I really liked because I was on my feet too much. Computer work isn’t that much better; too long and I get awful headaches, even with blue-light blocking and other precautions. I wracked my brain trying to thread the needle of employment that didn’t cause any more physical pain or exhaustion than I normally dealt with, something that let me work when my body was capable of working and rest when my body needed rest. Unsurprisingly, I haven’t found it yet…

Well…actually I had. Decades ago.

Not going to lie…spite and a bit of hurt can be a good motivator and my mother’s assertion that I can’t possibly start a career at 40 (I know, dumb right?) was a good kick in the pants. I decided that I was going to take that fuel and funnel into rekindling my writing passion. The rough bones of it will lay here until I can make some discernable shape from it. And maybe nothing will come from it but…maybe it will.

Photo by Dayne Topkin on Unsplash

2 thoughts on “0

  1. Ro! I’m so sorry this happened, but selfishly excited it’s going to result in you writing again! I can’t wait to see what you create! Also, doesn’t everyone start a new career at 40? No, really, that’s a thing. I’m sure it’s a thing. I’m doing it too!

    I love your comment box text by the way!

    1. It was definitely enough of a slap to the face to knock something loose. But yeah, going to make it work this time around, however I can. And thanks! I’m trying to make the site a little more fun by adding some touches like the comment box. Feel free to chime in with any suggestions.

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