And it wasn't always this way- when I was fifteen no one would hire me, but I wanted so badly to be around plants and doing something useful, that. I went to a nursery and asked if I could work there, for free. And I did for a while, but physically it turned out to be too much for me- I've always been underweight and kind of ill. When I turned sixteen, no one would hire me legitimately, and nothing has changed since. Wal-Mart, other nurseries, the waffle House, paradise bakery, Office Max, etc . . . Nada.
Mom insists that I bring in more money by being a tax write off, at least until I'm 26, than I would at a minimum wage job- she says I've always been a late bloomer, and to just relax and figure out my anxiety issues and not worry.
Which is extremely nice. But I still feel guilty. I see other people working at fast food places and retail jobs, and while they seem utterly miserable (at least the people I've talked to) they're not having meltdowns. They don't have scars on their arms from OCD skin picking problems. They're normal! They're self-reliant and functional.
And people seem to think I am, too.
But the reality is, I live in this bubble of desired perfection: I cannot be happy unless I do things perfectly, and look perfect, or as close as I can get. My nails must be long and I do them every night- I will forgo sleep to paint my nails. I cannot leave the house without heels and simple, perfect makeup. And nails, shoes and purse must all match, and I must be under 120 pounds.
People compliment me, and seem to think I have my s**t together, ha! If they only knew what's really going on inside my stupid little head.