October has been one of those months where the bizarre happens. Today is two years since the diagnosis. Last week was one year since the prostitute comment by Wolfson. It was the 300th day of surveillance. Soon we will be at the anniversary of getting the police report—that’s one year ago this week. Next week is the anniversary of when I quit my job. October has been a ride the last trip or two around the sun.
What, oh what, might this October bring? I’m staying positive, and I’m hoping my cosmic sentence is up this month and things are about to improve dramatically. Or it’s just going to be another month of hell in the years of hell that I have been living in.
I had a job interview today. It went great, and I’m positive I got it, but I’ll find out tomorrow. It’s doing intake at a personal injury law firm. They said sometimes they bring in therapy puppies, tattoos, and jello shots for the employees. I may have found my home.
I am trying to shift my career. I have hated my jobs in sales. I’m good at it, but I despise it. So I’m trying to get to a point where I can do research—i.e., the shit I have been doing with this whole fiasco. So, in lieu of law school, I figured I would try to get some law office experience and then razzle-dazzle them with the awesome fucking researcher I am, and that I’m cheaper than someone who has passed the bar. Not that I would necessarily mind if they had tuition reimbursement—I’d go to law school.
The reason I didn’t take my LSATs last year is because I got high instead. I know—why didn’t I do both? I could have. I wonder, with as high as I was that day, if I would have gotten a good score. {D} always told the story of doing whippets in his law school class—estate planning, I believe it was.
I think it’s also time for me to leave the house. I don’t think living in complete isolation has been great for my already questionable mental health. I need to get out of my head and have less free time at work to do stupid shit I think of.
I think this change will be good for me. I need to move, though. It’s a bitch of a drive, but they did finish the 15, so not as bad as it was.
I did something I’m afraid of, though, last night. I’ve told the story of how Brian 2 and I split up and me trying to fight off six cops while in cuffs because Brian 2 lied to the police and told them I had threatened him and myself with a gun. The gun, of course, wasn’t in the house; we got rid of it a year before when I tried to kill myself with it. The police believed him over me. I tried to tell them.
I remember the EMT was wearing a name tag, and I looked her in the eye and calmly said, “Carol, I didn’t do this. They are making a mistake. Please help right now.” She hesitated. Then the cops yelled, and she gave me the first of five shots I remember getting. Goddamn, I fought hard.
Well, I thought it wise to request the bodycam footage from that morning. I doubt there is anything that can be done now, but it will definitely explain why I didn’t go to the police with {D}. If it is as bad as I remember it, I don’t know. It’s almost like the rape video—I don’t know that I want to see it.
I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.
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