Two days ago, my mom and my sister came over for dinner, and I cooked real food (something I rarely actually do) and was happy to show my new place. It was renovated before I moved in, so although the building is ancient, ugly, and in the worst neighborhood of the city I live in, the inside looks relatively new. It has new windows, new kitchen and bathroom floors, and new cabinets and kitchen counters. It is a small place, for a person with a small income, and it's okay. I like it here. I liked my place before this alright too, and that was not renovated at all. It was in the same building, but I had to move out to accommodate the renovations. Moving was such an overwhelming task for me. I didn't realize how hard it would be physically and emotionally to try to organize all my junk. I was totally freaking out about what to do, where to move to, etc., as mentioned in previous posts here. But then the decision was made because this is a place I can afford, and I can't afford much else that is decent. Being only able to work part-time has its drawbacks, and a meager income is certainly one of them. But I'm glad I am able to work part-time, as there were years when I couldn't even do that.
I am pleased to report after my posts about not having sheets on my bed (which was partly because I never had sheets that actually fit my bed, because it has this comfy feather-bed on top that my ex-boyfriend's mother gave us, and which I still have as the only good outcome of that relationship, so the regular sheets never fit the bed), I now have a new bed set, and new sheets, all purchased at discount stores. I can't tell you how many stores I went to, or how much ridiculous comparison shopping I did, before I found a good price on a nice bed-set (a REALLY good price!) that I liked, that I could afford, and that I am happy to sleep on. I then purchased matching deep-fitted sheets from Ross, which actually fit my bed. So I can now sleep on sheets and not just without any. I was embarrassed to admit here that I never made my bed for years, so I wanted to show you this picture (not everything looks perfect in this picture, but it looks a million times better than before when I had piles, and piles of clothing on the floor and in laundry baskets, where they sat, all the time, for years)
A lot of people who live with serious mental illnesses live in crappy places. If you saw my neighborhood, with the prostitutes and the drug dealers and the many homeless folks, you'd say I lived in one for sure, too. And I have lived in much worse circumstances: homeless shelters, motels, a car, numerous rented rooms, a crappy shack-like apartment, and others....I have been forced to move more times than I can count, due to this illness. But for five years now, I've lived in one building. And that, for me, is an accomplishment.
People with mental illnesses I've known, like me, often share our rampant disorganization, or lack of organizing skills. I don't know what in the brain causes that, but I know I'm not the only one I know w with this problem. I am - really - a person who lives like a slob a lot of the time. And it's really not intentional. I certainly don't like living that way; it makes me horribly depressed, and it makes me a nervous wreck. In short, the anxiety it causes me to live like a slob is good motivation to try not living that way again. Sure, I have tried, and failed to maintain neatness in the past, but now, having company again for the first time in probably over a year, I like having a place where I'm not ashamed to open the door. I like having a place that looks decent. It makes me happier to be home. My case manager was the one person who I allowed to visit me, even in the worst of times, and she saw how bad it was before, and said last week that my place now looks better than she's ever seen it look. I used to avoid going home at all, just because I hated being there, when it looked really bad, so now, I have more peace of mind.
So, everything was going pretty well after all my work in the past couple weeks. Then, today, I got the news. I was rejected by the university I wanted to transfer to. I wanted to go into social work, to be a case manager, or a social worker. And so, I really wanted to go to this university where I could either major in social work (if I could get admitted to that program and handle the internship requirement) or sociology, which might be easier. Since I finally got my A.A. degree last December, after going to college off and on for nearly twenty years (17 exactly), I thought I would automatically be admitted into a Bachelor's program at a state university, because that is the way it's supposed to work in Florida. But not if you've withdrawn from as many classes as I have over the years, due to severe depression, and then, to psychosis. For that, they can reject you. My completion ratio was too low. I cried, rather a lot, when I read the letter.
I decided when I didn't like some things about the Bachelor's program I'm in at the community college, to apply for the university where I could pursue what I really wanted to do. And then I thought maybe this was not a good idea. So I wasn't totally sure, as I have mentioned here before, about what to do. But once I had decided to go for it, I really was starting to picture myself at the university, difficult course load and all, long drive and all, everything that would be hard and all, and managing it. And then this happened. My completion was too low to "succeed" at a competitive "research" university. I had mentioned on my application that I had this history with a mental illness and that my life had turned around. I don't know now if I should have mentioned that, but they can't deny admission on that basis. In fact, I can appeal this rejection, because I have a disability. But they say on their website that only ten percent of appeals will be accepted. I have to get more information on the appeal process, how involved it would be (I only have three weeks to complete it), and decide whether or not it is even worthwhile to bother.
It's just disappointing. I worked hard. I got A's in most of my classes. I struggled, and got through, and then it came down to this. Now, I might live the rest of my life regretting that I never got a chance to do social work, which was what I really wanted to do.
It's not the worst thing that has ever happened to me, by any means. Much worse has happened and could happen again. But it is disappointing, nonetheless.
For now, I will take comfort in my clean, decorated home, and the nice, clean sheets on my bed. I will not be ashamed to open the door. One night, I will have my neighbor, Mary, over for dinner. She has had Bipolar Disorder all her life and now, in her sixties, rarely leaves her apartment. I have visited her place downstairs numerous times, and now, she can visit mine.
This is Ribbit in the living room: