Fear and Money

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I’m afraid to look at my bank account. When I go to check my balance I actually flinch as if someone were about to hit me.

This is a residue of the years with Charles. He squandered his own money on drugs and trash and drained mine. I sold my old comic books on eBay just to pay the bills. Particularly to forestall the foreclosure that finally proved unevadable.

Now many choose to flee life itself feeling unable to cope with financial tragedy. Imagine being so unhappy that you’d rather die, rather that your spouse and children die.

My own economic helplessness is one of the most common reasons I like awake at night wondering if it wouldn’t be best if I died in my sleep some night soon. The years with Charles. My store’s plight. The greater economy. It seems as if the bad will soon be worse.

My insurance deductible restarted with the new calendar year. I find myself wondering how I’m going to pay for the oxygen concentrator, nebulizer, bipap machines and bottled oxygen that make life tolerable. Without them my range would be, say, from the bedroom to the bathroom. If I walk slowly. And stairs become mountains.

This isn’t meant to be read as quest for pity. Or whining.

How long can I preserve what little I have. I just don’t know.

Death would be better than impotent poverty. There’s no shame in being honest about it.

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