It's the Hard-Knock Life

I was going to blog today about my experience at the Polar Dip, but that's been moved to the back-burner for now. After one too many thoughtless comments made on Facebook, I decided to address this the way I oh-so-love-to: through a blog. Enjoy.

"You wanna start a battle of who has the harder life? Let's do it."

I’m up at 4:00 am every morning to deliver newspapers to nearly 200 people in Sylvan Lake. If I’m lucky, I get an hour of sleep after that before I have to go to work at the library (my second job). Then there’s the Thursday evenings that are devoted to delivering two separate newspapers (my third job) to almost 150 Sylvan Lake locals. I get two scheduled days off from the library per week, which doesn’t really count as a break, seeing as how my mother and I have started a day home (my fourth job), so whenever I’m not working at the library, I’m helping to look after 6 kids between the ages of 7 months and 9 years. Couple that with the extra time I put in to fundraise for the library, protest for animal rights, spend time with my family and friends (real face-time, not just posting random crap on Facebook), write and edit any of the four novels I’m currently working on, and maybe get an hour or two at the end of the day to eat and watch something on my laptop - not on my TV, because it’s so old that it’s got lines running through it, and the DVD player rejects more discs than it plays. I can’t afford to replace either of those, or even buy a bed that would help correct my back problems, because for the last five months I’ve been paying for rent, utilities, and groceries, while barely managing to replenish the worn and tattered remains of my wardrobe, so that I don’t get fired for wearing swim trunks and cleavage-bearing tank tops to work.

To calculate, I usually get about 4-5 hours of sleep a night. If I'm lucky, I get about 4 hours in the day to myself. The other 15 hours are spent working at one of my 4 jobs. Multiply 15 hours/day with 7 days/week, and you get 105 hours - that's my work week. Don't even try to lecture me on a 40-hour work week. If I really try and I'm REALLY lucky, some weeks I go down to 90-95 hours. Life is hard - boo-fucking-hoo.

I value those who are important to me. I make time for those who are important to me. While I acknowledge the benefits of Facebook as a social networking tool (not as the free therapy, harassment-ridden soap opera that it has become), I don’t bank the entirety of my social life on it. When I want to connect with someone, I make the time to see them in person, I take the initiative to plan social interactions, and I spend the money that such outings will require. I don’t bitch about the hassle, whine about how no one ever spends time with me, or make up bullshit scandals about former friends because I’m feeling bored, neglected, or underappreciated. When I want a social life outside of the craziness that is my reality, I make it happen.

Am I bitchy? Yeah. To quote Lady Gaga, “I was born this way”. I don’t mean this in a wannabe rebel way, I mean it quite literally. I was diagnosed with ADHD when I was three, a disorder than has a 50/50 chance of being passed on to children of those with ADHD (diagnosed or undiagnosed). I’m the 1 in that 1-in-2 chance. I have always been loud and aggressive, easily fixated, and highly expressive. I am also extremely possessive, and extremely protective. If you are an underdog, I will defend you until I am blue in the face - then I’ll take a hit of my asthma inhaler, take a deep breath, and keep on going. If you are causing harm to someone who is an important part of my life, then I will come at you with everything that I have - and that is not limited to my fists. I am proud of my ability to carry on an intelligent debate. I am proud of my quick wit and sarcastic tone. I am proud of my ability to articulate myself, both verbally as well as in written form. I am proud of my command of the English language. I am proud of my intelligence, as well as my ability to admit when I’m wrong.

I also have the gift of maturity. I know when to be vague (such as now - notice that I'm not spreading your name and specific issues all over blogspot/Facebook), and when to come out and say who did what to who, and when they did it. I know when to keep private things private, and when to scream it out at the top of my lungs. I know that true friendship is a hell of a lot more important than a stupid bicker-war over Facebook.

You want to know one more thing about me (Which at this point, if you’re still reading, I have to assume you must)? I know that I do not work harder than everyone else in the world. I know that I don’t have the hardest life, or the worst luck, or the most damaging childhood/parents/experiences. I know when to admit I’ve caught a break, and how to recognize those who are still in need of a break.

Every day I see homeless people come into the library, wearing the same clothes they’ve been wearing all winter, smelling of garbage, urine, cigarette smoke, alcohol, human and animal feces, sweat, and in some cases, skunk. I feel sympathy for the mentally unstable people who roam around Sylvan, who somehow find the courage to talk to people, when they know people would rather not have to look at them. To look at them, to speak to them, means acknowledging their existence. It means admitting that someone else has it harder than you. I feel pity when I see impoverished people digging through garbage cans for beer bottles and soda cans, on the faintest of hopes that they can scrounge up enough to afford a meal for the day, or even just a hot cup of coffee.

I look at them, and know that my life could be monumentally harder. That doesn’t mean my life is easy. That means I know just how hard I have to work to keep the things that are important to me. My dog is important to me; his needs will always come before mine. My mother is important to me; her needs will ALWAYS come before mine. My family is important to me, my friends are important to me, and I will defend them until I am blue in the face … and then that old asthma inhaler comes back out, and we’re full circle.

Bottom line - I will not be silenced. I will be loud, I will be honest, and above all, I’ll think before I speak (or in this case, type).