Despair.

God I'm sick of this feeling. This encroaching despair as I run out of money. I have about 300 dollars in my bank account, not quite enough to pay the bills I need to pay. And I won't know until some time this week if I am going to be in this drug study that I'm counting on for my next infusion of cash.

You might say, well, if you're tired of being broke then get a job. But the reason I'm tired of being broke is that it's depressing, and having a job will only be more depressing.

I have lots of very nice moments, days that are great. Lately mostly having to do with working in the garden or writing or even blogging. But I want those moments to be my life, not just periodic relief from it.

I always feel like I have two choices. Ever since I was 20 years old, I have felt like I had these two choices:

Behind door number one: get a job. If I get a job, I either have to give up my creative life (despair) or try to hold on to my creative life but never have enough time or energy to give to it (despair). And even if I get a job, the jobs I am qualified for would not pay me enough to break even (despair).

Behind door number two: don't get a job. Keep doing what I'm doing. At least now I feel like I am living some semblance of an artist's life. I am writing. But I am constantly distracted by the need to again and again come up with money to pay the bills and I'm always just short of the bare minimum I need (despair, slightly less than with door number one, but, still, despair).

Nobody worry, I'm kidding about the noose. But I'm not kidding about being sick to death of these two choices. Sick to fucking death. Where's door number three? I need door number three. I am 46 years old and I am weary to my bones of not being able to provide for myself.