Money Matters

What’s the point of mental health when you have money? Why be at peace when you can have money? Why live your life when you can have money? Today I realized the harsh reality of one of the ugliest truths of all: money matters. Everything we ever do is in order to obtain money; it’s the ulterior motive that drives nearly every single decision. Why yes, we’re going to enroll our kids in the French Immersion program. They’ll become bilingual and have more job opportunities. More job opportunities mean more cash in their pockets. Sure, we can say we’re paving a brighter future for these kids, or that the ends justify the means, but how far are we willing to go for money?

I spent the last year convincing myself that I came first. My health was priority everything else – including schoolwork – took the backburner. Anyone who knows me knows that I wouldn’t miss a day of school unless I couldn’t walk, or breathe, or move without throwing up. I was so uptight about my schoolwork because I had the irrational fear that if I missed a single class I would fall behind, which meant failing a test, which ultimately failing the year. Things in my mind snowballed so quickly, so rapidly, that once they had begun it was nearly impossible to stop it. It’s like my life was a freight train and my mental health was tied to the train tracks.

After all this time, I realized that in order to do my best, I have to be my best. All those “Be The Best You You Can Be” posters or other motivational propaganda plastered around classrooms since the first grade suddenly made sense. How could I expect to be successful if I’m not the best I can be? I couldn’t

And that was that.

I spent months rewiring my brain, recoding my inner computer, fighting with my preprogrammed genetic code, to accept that I came first. In times of crisis and health, it’s important to be selfish. It’s important to let yourself be happy without taking on the burden of a thousand others. I finally felt I was getting some stable ground, standing on my own. I was nearly rid of the crutches that I used to help me, maybe it was my last prescription. Maybe, just maybe. Somewhere inside the new me, the BEST me, was an inkling of hope that I could be happy. And then, within five minutes, between the time I received the call and when I answered, the stable footing I thought I had, collapsed beneath me.

At the beginning of the summer I applied nearly everywhere for a job. Just a part time job to occupy my rampant mind and make some extra cash for university. I knew I wouldn’t be able to upkeep the job during the fall semester – hell, some of the smartest kids on the Dean’s List couldn’t do it, there was no chance that I could. But as days waiting for response turned to weeks, suddenly everything blurred together and I felt as if I was wasting my life away. Without routine or construction my mind was tangled, unsure of what to be doing. So I started volunteering – something I always felt really good about. Started helping out my friends with personal ambitionse like making films, but all at once keeping myself as priority.
By the time I got a call back, finally, it was nearly August. One month until I began university. Nearly one month until the end of my life. What was the point of getting a job for a month – missing doctor’s appointments, family time, and the few plans that I was excited for? To do things that made me happy. I had forgotten what happiness was. Suddenly, I was expected to drop everything and take this job. Or so say my parents.

Within five minutes my world changed from bearable to scraping through poverty because “I couldn’t afford to do this” or “I couldn’t afford to do that” and “I’m sure you can do it during the fall.” Within five minutes my mother stopped wishing for my happiness and started wishing for money. Within five minutes, everything I spent the last year and a half achieving was gone. Poof. Forgotten. No one seemed to remember just how damaged I was, and how fragile I still am.

I knew in my heart I wasn’t strong enough to take the job. I was just barely off my meds, just barely supporting myself without feeling guilty for existing. I knew that nothing but stress and relapses could come from the job. And one simple interview turned into a triple dose of the medication we aimed to get off three months ago. But that doesn’t matter. There’s money involved.

“You’re mental if you think those excuses are enough reason to not take the job.”

“Are you getting down again? You’ve been awfully negative lately.”

Maybe if my parents hadn’t been consumed, lustful, with the idea of me getting a job, then maybe I would be okay. But, alas, here we are. “Down again.” The phrase that plagues every waking moment of my life, ever proving that my parents lack the understanding that sometimes I don’t feel like I’m enough for them. They don’t understand what it’s like to feel empty, without purpose. Apparently, they believe money is more important than me.