I was wallowing in my own selfishness when I wrote my last few posts. For that, I am sorry and I am embarrassed. I’d like to go back and delete them but I won’t. I want to be transparent in my struggles, not only with my major psychiatric illness, but with my minor ones as well. If I am disabled, which I see myself as, everything in my life is going to be colored with that disability. That’s why I go on about things that seem irrelevant. It’s not, it’s me. I am these things.
I woke up in the morning thinking this scraping by thing could be fun. There is nothing fun about being actually poor, but we’re not. On my first mission’s trip to Mexico we were in a pueblo where some of the people were so poor they built their houses out of cardboard – a few were made of wood designed to keep the cardboard or sheet of thin wood in some sort of shape. There was a little boy, probably about six, who took care of his two little sisters and his baby brother. He had a stroller and was as organized as a mom with four and was clearly more on top of it than I will ever be. I was in their home briefly and saw, written on chalk on the inside of the house, in Spanish, “The house of the poor is happier than the house of the rich.”
We went to Costco today and bought the things we needed, for example: no sparkling water, and that’s all. We went to the huge Asian supermarket to get our vegetables and rice noodles. We skipped Trader Joe’s because it’s the kinda place you can blow money. For example, I ate their packaged Indian food every day. Not a need. We have lentils at home anyway, and Mr. M will make me some that will be quite delicious. Lots of examples this line
The Love Dare continues. Today I was supposed to buy something to show Mr. M I was thinking of him. Problem is, as you know, I have no money. Mr. M cheated and used his Starbucks card to get me a vanilla rooibos latte. It was quite tasty.