26 January 2023
I got my first paycheck today.
I felt nothing.
I thought it would make me happy.
I thought it would provide me with relief when getting fired after barely no more than three weeks.
I thought it would make those weeks of hating myself so much that I'd rather be dead feel worth it.
Instead, I felt nothing.
Maybe upset, maybe a bit melancholic?
It wasn't the full month's paycheck, but it was more money than I thought I'd get. Then again I didn't bother making the calculations of how many hours I was there to be sure I was getting everything I was owed.
Instead, I just looked at the check in my hand, the amount of money and my deadname were written in bold comic sans. For some reason that was the first thing to catch my eye, almost like a mocking reflection of how much of a joke my life is.
I can't help but think about how if I was still working there, I wouldn't be able to do jackshit with the money. How it wouldn't be enough to sustain myself in a scenario where I successfully managed to move out.
I've grown so paranoid over any spending that I rarely to never buy anything for myself unless I absolutely 100% know I want it.
My only proper investments are for my art. A printer, a button maker, stocking up on stickers to sell. There's nothing else I want to buy for me myself outside of the necessity to invest in my work. Nothing, but a place to live away from it all.
I remember a time when I used to enjoy video games. When I could play games and I wouldn't hate myself because of how the time I'm wasting gaming should be used for work instead.
I remember liking figurines and comics. I remember when books weren't basically impossible for me to pick up due to the immense painful guilt of doing something my mind regarded as unproductive.
I don't buy neither games or books nor figurines anymore. I don't deserve them and I can't enjoy them anymore.
How bold of myself to think I've done enough to deserve a break when my entire life has been a break.