So this is it.

The final nail in my work life coffin.

I have gotten confirmation that I won’t be able to resume work for as long as my kids need a carer, which is… well, probably their whole life. There is no in-between—I can’t be employed, and I can’t be a small business owner.

I shouldn’t be upset—I’m getting paid (not much though) to take care of my kids, who are the world to me. But I can’t help but grieve the potential. I was really hoping I would be able to resume earning money with my art, and now I see that it will not be possible.

I’m not going to lie. I’m getting through all the grieving phases. Denial, bargaining, depression, acceptance, but mostly anger. And they don’t seem to be sequential, either. I jump from one to the other. They come in waves. At times, I just want to lay down and never come up again. Other times, I’m furious. Rarely, I find some pocket of zen attitude with it.

Lately, I have been trying to convince myself. If they don’t want me to work, FINE. I will live my best life doing what I want to do. I will rest, which is good for my health and mental health. I will take care of my home and family, as much as my chronic illnesses allow. I will loll in the luxury of having all the time in the world to be leisurely. After all, taking care of my kids is relatively easy (even though it is unavoidable and needs someone responsible to do it).

But just like my health and mental health have become hard to bear, this is another thing I have to renounce. Another sacrifice to be made. Another way I am feeling like a burden—even though multiple conversations with the love of my life have almost convinced me it isn’t the case (almost, because when you’ve spent your whole life seeing that your worth is closely tied to your usefulness or the money you bring home, and not just your personal worth, it’s hard to completely put these thoughts away).

This is going to be quite an adjustment. It’s also, in part, why I have deserted this blog for a while (that, and the fact that I have a hard time surviving in the chaos of reno). What is my goal here? The ones I made for my 50th birthday are not workable anymore. I might go on to do some of them, for fun, but the hit of dopamine I was seeking is not there anymore. Making art for myself is nice and all, but I thrive in a different kind of environment. I love to create for others. I used to enjoy earning money with it. I don’t know how I am going to change my mindset around this. It might take a long while, but I have nothing but time now.

When I think how maybe someone else would be so happy to have that kind of problem, that somehow will be beneficial for my health in the long term (maybe not my mental health, I still have to decorrelate my worth from what I bring on the table, and it’s an anticapitalist deconstruction I’m there for but it’s not going to be easy), I see that there’s something WRONG with me. I’ll try to work on that, somehow.

Yeah, I’m a mess lately. I’m trying not to let it affect my home life, but it is still something huge—a trauma, even—that I have to live through.

I will never work again.

It sucks.

It’s scary.

Thanks, I hate it.