I’m back, and what a rollercoaster.

The convention was great. It was awesome to see friends, and I made enough money to pay off two medical bills, so I have a little more breathing room, anyway. I have a bunch of leftover stuff to post to Etsy and I was feeling like things were looking up.

Then, on Saturday, I get a call from the storage unit I rent, telling me my storage unit got broken into. My bike, sewing machine, and some assorted tools and cosplay odds and ends are missing. I filed a police report because the whole facility got hit and all the people with locks like mine got broken into. I bought one of the circle locks they sell there (I’d bought one at the store but it was too small, so I’d traded my mom for her gym lock) and when I asked my mom about filing a claim, as it’s covered under her homeowner’s policy, she said something about the deductible being too high, so either they didn’t steal enough stuff ($250-300 worth) or making a claim will make the policy go up, I don’t know. She said we’ll talk about it when she gets home. So now I’m just sitting here, heartbroken, because those things took a long time to save up for, and now they’re gone.

My favorite part? There’s plenty of room in this goddamn house for all of it, but my stepdad didn’t want it here, so I had to get a unit. I had to give up my cat for fostering because my stepdad didn’t want her here, and now my stuff is being stolen because he didn’t want it here, either.

He didn’t want *me* here, feeling that I would learn more if I was simply homeless, because mental illness is totally just like having an addiction and you need to let people hit rock bottom. *facepalm*

Goddamnit.

Hopefully I’ll feel better by this week. I need to find a job, desperately.

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