Where Is Our Joy?

GONE, at least mine's been.  I recently heard an interview with an author whose new book describes how many of us are feeling "Eh!" at this point in the pandemic: no sense of direction; not really helping others; our Joy is gone.  Boy, do I feel better...I thought it was only me.

A few days ago I acknowledged the fact possibility that God doesn't want me to find a different place to live right now, no matter how much cajoling I do.  I wrote a friend,

"God's not dumb.  He knows what's going on with me, no matter whether there's a multitude of well-wishers rooting, as for Barabbas, or merely a few."

I keep having dreams about that lost tiny-house.  Maybe it's a sign? Nah, probably the Hard Salami you keep snacking.  I haven't stepped on my scale in months.  I don't want to know how much, if any, of last year's 30-pound weight loss has returned.  I'll deal with that in 2022.

You have to believe there's a reason...a purpose...something better in store...

That's how I was raised but I can't stand to even write those platitudes anymore.  I've been using them to keep pumped up during this Section 8 nightmare (for new readers, I've documented The Hungry Games).

Picking up from my last post, I continued arguing my case with the Supervisor at the local Housing Authority, but we all know you can't fight City Hall.  Was it was worth the effort?  Unknown.  At least I learned their formula for determining WHY I was $60 short of the $1095 rent.  It was one of those A - B  = C; when B + UA (Utility Average) = yada yada...

BORING.  Basically, they're including estimated electricity in their totals and I wasn't.  I understood, or perhaps assumed, that electricity was not included in their rent limits.  That's the way it is in the real world, unless you're living with your parents.

After all, how can you anticipate consumption without considering the age of the unit or number of inhabitants? If it's part of their final computation, differing depending upon house, apartment or townhouse, how the hell am I supposed to know exactly what to look for to begin with?

"That's why you're given limits."

OMG, if their 'paper' limit shows $985 but their final computation was $1035, how does that square with her admonition?  Why am I arguing?  Am I in the midst of Alzheimer's and don't realize it; just like what happened with Menopause? 

I over-analyze things, lock me up.  If I'm wrong about something I'll own up to it (once I realize), but don't tell me 2+2=5 and expect me to believe it.  I'm confrontational, argumentative and given to emotions; but I'm also generous, honest and staunch supporter of equal justice. Depends on who you talk to.

Amy ended the email by vowing to cry, often and loudly, that for the sake of 60 Bucks the Housing Authority, through its representatives, has condemned me to homelessness. I won't continue arguing with the Supervisor; however, there's nothing to stop me from writing articles and contacting those in a position to affect change, or at the very least place a spotlight on the program. But first I've got to get over my hard feelings enough to sound objective.

I'll go through the motions until January 7th because I don't want to be a TOTAL quitter; but there's little hope left inside of me.  I need to feel at least a little bit happy again, because I haven't felt that way in a very long time.

Which brings me back to the beginning, and that fellow's point about us all feeling Joy-less.  Do I feel this way because I failed in my housing search or because of Covid?  Who knows.  I do know that once I decided to 'cry Uncle' my psyche immediately improved.  Accept the way things are, pull up your BGB's (Big Girl Bloomers) and deal with it.

I may not have recovered my Joy yet, but at least I'm smiling when confronted with unexpected trials I won't bore you with here.  In case I don't get around to it, Merry Christmas!

Next installment of the Hungry Games:  Pot of Problems