My life is worth slightly less than $80,000.

. . .

I know I need help. I need a therapist, I need to get myself out of my rut. I can't afford a therapist; I can't afford anything because the temp agency through whom I seek employment does not have a position for me right now.

So, I tried turning to my family--specifically, my mother. Talking to her is like rolling dice: Some days, it's all OK and she's understanding. Other days, it's vitriol and hatred. The worst part is, there's no telling which version of her will pop up.

Like today.

"Hey, I'm job hunting. I'm not doing too well--"

"I TOLD YOU, GO GET A FUCKING JOB AT THE POST OFFICE!" she screamed.

I guess today is a vitriol-and-hatred day.

"I still have severe depression and anxiety, plus a repetitive stress injury. I need help, and I am physically unable to work there."

"I'M GOING CAMPING WITH YOUR AUNT! WE'RE GETTING THE MOTORHOME READY!"

"Could you please just put off camping for a bit? I need your help, please--"

"GO WORK AT THE FUCKING POST OFFICE!" --and she hangs up the phone.

. . .

Her motorhome costs $80,000. It hurts, but I have come to the realization that I am worth less than $80,000.