CONCLUSION

It has only taken me 50 years or so, but I think I might finally be on the verge of arriving at a conclusion.

People, generally, are quite happy to enjoy the better parts of my personnage. Whether that be the pleasant, non-demanding aspects of my everyday demeanour, or my intelligent insights, my professional advice (including but not limited to communications, blog writing, story consultancy, workplace efficiency measures, mentoring, workgroup dynamics, et cetera) or even my diligent and devoted domestic contributions as wife and mother, people are happy to take whatever they can get from me. And take (and take, and take) they do.

But when I need help, suddenly I am somehow too hard. 

Look, yes, apparently I can get through an entire 9 month cancer treatment ordeal without ever once making it onto one of those mythical community casserole rosters, or without anyone ever, not even once, pegging out a load of washing for me. Apparently, I can do all of that and SOMEHOW just never actually qualify for sick leave, or insurance payouts or any other kind of safety net that I hear about (often in wonder and amazement that these things are apparently quite easy to obtain). I can work exceptionally hard to ensure customer service keeps functioning in the middle of a pandemic and then be dropped on my arse because of that pandemic, and then somehow not qualify for the financial relief that everyone else has qualified for who has lost work. But the one that really takes the fucking cake is that when, finally, I have gone above and fucking beyond in a sphere of endeavour that is so fucking EXCEPTIONAL that words cannot even be formulated to describe it, and I then fall LITERALLY flat on my face, who turns up to help?

A close family member, a couple of times maybe, begrudgingly. 

Anyone else? Nope.

Meanwhile, when I have actively advocated to ensure that others will receive, in their hour of need, a full rotation of pleasantly presented, visually appealing and tasty meals, who is feeding me? When I cannot walk, except painfully and slowly with crutches, who has even ASKED how I am getting on? Who has asked what the practical arrangements are in place to ensure that I am fed?

Actually no-one. 

Not even my husband. (Bon appetit, arsehole).

I am so fucking over the relentless selflessness that is required of me. I am sick and fucking tired of platitudes about community and helping people in their hour of need. (I am particularly bitter towards the person who asked me to trust them, who talked up family and friendship and community as if that ever, EVER eventuates in any kind of REAL support. Where the fuck are YOU?). Maybe I fell for all of that bullshit once, maybe (as the current episode of actual physical harm and my disappointed expectation of help suggests) I have fallen for it repeatedly. Or maybe it just turns out that I am, after everything I have done and not done, a bitter, begrudging, mean, selfish-spirited excuse for a human being that doesn’t, not even now, warrant the kind of help that is given generously, freely, joyfully, lovingly. 

(Unlikely, all things considered).

I don’t know. I am so deep in not understanding the selfish, callous disregard of other humans that I cannot even pretend to have arrived at a conclusion about that. What I do know is that I am done with being someone who pays upfront for shit that never arrives. I am done with optimism, with belief, with hope. You can fucking pay up, world, before I render the service of shining my light into your benighted shitstorm. And if you are relying on me to pull myself upright and drag myself forwards, yet again, then too fucking bad. It’s too hard. And I don’t believe you anymore.