To tell the truth

"No, really, how are you?" he asks again.

"How am I? I'm stuck living with my dad in a cramped apartment full of his stuff (he's a bit of a collector), he's moving it all around to get ready to lay down new floors and he keeps coming into my room and moving shit. I have no privacy. I'm a thirty year-old woman with no privacy.

I'm living on the support of the state through unemployment because it's been 5 months and I can't seem to find a job. It doesn't matter that I've had 17 interviews at this point; no one seems to want to hire me, and I feel like my brain is wasting away.

My med situation is all fucked up, and now I've got these awesome side effects like weight gain, bloating, and serious irritability. I'm irritable. I'm angry. I'm scared that nothing is going to change and I'm going to be right where I am this time next year. I'll never get on my feet again. I know it's not true: something has to give. But I'm fucking miserable. All the gratitude lists and positive thinking in the world can suck it. My life sucks. And I can't fucking stop eating.

That's how I feel."

"You're better this week," he says. "You've got a fight in you you didn't have before." Right. Cause I'm at least not suicidal. I'm just angry.