Dear Darling Ones,

Both the March 6ths when I woke up with nothing newly catastrophic happening in my body have been a great joy.

It’s been two years since I woke up to everything inside my body feeling not right, sure I had stroke.

For the official record, I’m not one of the six or seven male first responders believed me and I had to have a friend take me to the ER. I wish all the annoying inconveniences on the heads of those fuckers. Men, please believe women.

Yeah, two years ago I went to bed and woke up disabled. It can happen that fast.

Of course, I didn’t realize the stroke was disabling at the time. I was hopeful and more than a little bit obstinate in my belief that I would make a full recovery, back to walking and driving in no time.

Surprise, I was wrong.

Or, I’m wrong so far. There will always be a teeny bit of me that thinks things will go back to normal, that my eyesight will magically clear, I’ll regain my balance, and the constant wooshiness in my head will disappear. It could happen. Probably not, but it’s not impossible.

Last night, as I was writing this post in my head, I thought the best way to describe the “wooshiness” is like you’re on the verge of being dizzy or lightheaded. You know, that exact second you realize something isn’t quite right. It’s that. All the time. Every minute I am not lying down. It gets worse when I’m sitting on my stool and exponentially worse when I stand up.

And now, it’s been two years of that. I still find myself thinking, at least once a day, I can’t believe I had a fucking stroke!

Every year, um, both years? as the Strokeaversary approaches I think back to those very early days and how scared I was. I was so afraid I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t recover.

I’m still scared. Still afraid I can’t do it. I won’t recover.

What I’ve learned is there are many ways to recover.

Two years ago I wasn’t sure I’d be able to live. I felt so physically and emotionally fragile. Would I be able to live in my house on my own? Would I be able to get up and down the stairs? Feed and bathe myself? Take care of myself and my home in any way?

It took a long time to figure stuff out. I’ve had to adapt how I do a lot things. I sit down to take a shower. I use a wheeled stool to cook, clean, and for laundry. Being unable to stand for more than 90 seconds is a pain in the ass, but it doesn’t make things impossible.

I can take care of me and the cats even if I need help with some things.

Now what scares me is recovering financially.

I’m still trying to figure that out.

Thanks to the people who donated to the GoFundMe, I raised $26,164. That number boggles my mind and I’m so thankful. With help I was able to pay for my $21,000 stroke and have a little left over to help keep the lights on around here.

Because of the GoFundMe the only debt I have is my mortgage. If anyone wants to give me $119,302 to pay to off, I’ll take it!

Even without a lot of debt, I’m running out of money. Living is expensive, y’all. You might not realize this, but eggs are super expensive right now. So is electricity.

Two years since the stroke also means two years without the ability to do a significant amount of work to support myself. I only made $16,000 in 2023. Pretty sure I’ll only crack $10K in 2024. I had a lot of savings in the bank, but now it’s down to $1000.

I’m scared, Darling Ones. What do you do if you can’t work and have no money? I don’t know yet. I need to figure that out.

My initial application to The Dole (Social Security disability) was denied in January. I just checked and they’re still on Step 1 of 5 on my appeal. Thankfully, there’s nothing going on in the federal government that should make me anxious about this.

Insert the cry face emoji here.

Yowza, that got dark fast. I’m gonna paste a bunch of buttons in the P.S. if you have the desire and capability to help out or send me some LEGOs to cheer me up. I’m not gonna constantly hit you up for money. Begging is not a sustainable way to earn money. Maybe I can become a nonprofit?

Despite the poverty and disability I think I may be happier than I’ve ever been. Nothing like an actual catastrophe to make you appreciate life and the people you love.

Often I make myself laugh with how schmoopy I’ve become. I scroll through social media and am all,Oh, I love her. Oh, he’s so great. Who even am I?

Next to butt and fuck, love is the word I say the most (there’s a whole butt song I sing to Wendell multiple times a day). Right round the time my former friend Kari opted out of my life, I decided that I wanted love vibes in my house all the time.

To work towards this, whenever one of the gatitos comes down the stairs I say, out loud, “I love you! You’re a cat.” I want them to remember those two things.

And I want you to know that if you’re readying this, I love you. You’re are probably not a cat, but it’s not impossible.

Happy to still be here,
Jodi

P.S. Here’s the aforementioned begging:

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Hello Darling Ones,

How’s February been treating you? Things have been alternating between awful and amazing here.

My sister had a breast cancer scare that required surgery and all that hullaballoo, but it’s benign.

There was also a sisterly job loss, but a better job came along and she’s so much happier.

There was a mouse in my house, but Los Gatitos hunted the teeny guy down and I got him into a box and released him outside.

Mostly, I spend my days trying to keep my mind and my hands busy so that I don’t think too much. Since I can’t work much this requires extra effort on my part.

I try to avoid thinking because nothing good comes of that. I’m creeping up on two years without a steady income and my savings have gone from five numbers to four numbers and soon to be three numbers. Just writing that sentence makes my breath come a little faster. We’ve enacted severe austerity measures here because I’m not optimistic about getting on the dole considering the current state of affairs.

From there my thinking spirals out into the current state of affairs and that doesn’t go well, then I get to add a sprinkle of shame on top of everything for being selfishly concerned about myself and not doing enough to change things.

It all quickly devolves into hopelessness and nihilism.

See why thinking is bad? So bad. Awful. Zero stars.

The problem that arises is that writing requires thinking. I love writing. I miss writing, but see little use in repeatedly writing about going bankrupt and being homeless while the world burns. It doesn’t even feel cathartic. It feels like shovel coal into the fiery furnace of anxiety.

So what’s a supergenius to do? I got a plan for that.

Between shoving murder mysteries into my brain and binging tv about cults, cons, and social media influencers (all kinda the same thing, no?), I’m reading Open Socrates: The Case for a Philosophical Life by Agnes Callard. This is, I’m sure, going to solve my problems. It’s been 30 years since I engaged with So Crates (in political theory classes not just “Bill & Ted’s”). With this book and magical thinning I’m going to get to a place where I can write about how much I loved Neko Case’s memoir and why social media influencers and family vloggers are so creepy and fascinating. Best of all I’m going to be able to do this without shouting about being destitute and being shipped off to a childless cat lady on SSRIs camp.

It’s gonna work. Right? RIGHT?

Not yet philosophically yours,
Jodi

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Hi Darling Ones,

I hope you all made it into 2025 relatively unscathed. I had a quiet, peaceful start to the new year until yesterday delivered the first kick in the teeth of the year.

Social Security denied my disability claim. They seem to think the ability to clearly see letters, punctuation, lines, and shapes are not important to my work as a writer and web designer. They acknowledge it may be more difficult, but doesn’t inhibit my ability to work for significant financial gain.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahhhahahahahahahahahahahahahah.

In a fit or rage and despair, I filed an appeal explaining that the visual distortion caused by macular edema means I frequently “lose” letters and punctuation. Like, I just can’t see it because it’s swirled into the letters or spaces around it. In more ways than one, commas are my weakness.

I also explained how my Floppy Scoop makes typing super difficult and I’m more prone to typos and other errors. I legit can’t look at a screen for more than 45 minutes before my eyes refuse to focus and while I would love to only work 45 minutes a day or even 90 minutes on a good one I don’t think anyone is going to pay me $700 an hour to update their website. But if you’d like to, I’m totally willing. I also explained the walking balance stuff, but they didn’t seem to care about that as much.

Darling Ones, I’m doing my very best not to doom spiral my way into visions of homelessness where Los Gatitos and I can’t even live in Ruby (who hasn’t been started in two years) because I can’t drive.

What happens when you can’t make enough money to live on? It’s been a long time since I’ve been really poor and I don’t think you can write bad checks as easily now as you could in the 90s. I’m not charming enough with a large enough community to continually depend on the kindness of strangers to pay my mortgage.

Yuck.

It takes four to twelve weeks for Social Security to make a decision on my appeal. If that’s denied I can ask for a trial and that may take more than a year. Can you put attorney fees on a credit card? Your mortgage?

Ok, sorry, that’s a little bit of gloom and doom. I have a few months left of living expenses left thanks to a client who prepaid me for 2025 work. But still? I’m kinda scared. I feel like I’m too old to be having these kinds of financial problems.

Way to start out as a total buzzkill, 2025. You can’t knock that shit off any time.

Love,
Jodi

P.S. I’ll be okay. I would really just like one fucking thing in my god damn life to not be a difficult, annoying, frustrating hassle. Why can’t anything ever be easy?

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Dear Darling Ones,

I like to do big deals on the 6th of the month. Be born (June 6th). Have a stroke (March 6th). Face cold, hard facts (July 6th).

What? You might be asking yourself. What cold, hard facts? Today is July 6th and I’ve seen exactly zero facts faced. Cold, hard, or otherwise.

Well, I’m here to tell you about not 1, not 2, but 3 cold, hard facts I am facing.

Cold Hard Fact #1

I have to apply for Social Security Disability.

Just typing that sentence makes my stomach roil. I’m both scared and kind of ashamed. What if I don’t get it? Am I disabled enough? Will they just think I’m lazy?

I would love to be able to work at full capacity. But the distortion caused by my macular edema makes spending hours trying to read a computer screen exhausting and difficult. Having to blow up my screen to 200% makes web design so slow.

Neither of these things make work impossible, just slow going. I’m still working for my most loyal clients and it makes me so happy. However, I don’t have enough work to support myself nor do I have the visual capacity to work more hours.

And physically, I’m kind of a nightmare. I can’t stand unassisted for more than 90 seconds. I can’t walk without my walker. And with the tremor in my right arm, I’m ill-suited for any work I can think of.

While it might seem I’m trying to justify this to you, Darling Ones, I’m really justifying it to myself. Not being able to support myself is humbling, but then so is begging the Internet for money, which is not the keen financial strategy it looks like.

Cold Hard Fact #2

I’m not going to finish my State Fair Blanket in time for this year’s fair.

Ugh. I hate failing. I also hate when reality interferes with my magical thinking.

But, I’m just not going to be able to create a bitchen, blue-ribbon worthy blanket in the next 24 days.

What was I thinking? For all the reasons work is difficult, crocheting is also difficult. Not impossible, just slow.

Plus, I vastly underestimated how long it would take me to translate my idea into yarn. It took me six weeks and many failed prototype just to get a single motif for the blanket to work. I’m being purposely cryptic here because I want to final reveal to b e a surprise.

So, next year will have to be my year. Thankfully, the State Fair accepts submissions that were made within three years of the submission date.

Cold Hard Fact #3

My twenty-ywo-year relationship with the woman who was my best friend is over.

This is the toughest, coldest fact to face. Last July 6th, I wrote this about her, However, I did repeatedly remind her what a good person she was while murmuring out loud to myself that she really is the best friend.”

A lot can change in a year.

This person who so kindly filled out my physical & occupational therapy intake forms last year is also the person who, last week, wrapped every gift she won from Rock & Roll Bookclub Dirty Santa in pastel tissue paper, put them in a colorful gift bag, dropped them off on Sister #4’s doorstep, and texted my mom that there was a “belated birthday gift” outside for and my sister.

Yeah.

Actually, factually, yours,
Jodi

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Hi Darling Ones,

I did my taxes last night. It was not pretty.

To be fair, my taxes are never pretty. I’m a self-employed freelancer. This means I’m responsible for all of the taxes and social security and other things I probably should know.

Every year my taxes are pretty hefty and while it hurts I always remind myself about the existence of public libraries and then I don’t feel so bad paying my taxes. I love the public library, and a few days a week I rock my What’s more punk than the public library shirt. Public libraries are the best thing about this dumpster fire of a country. I’ve written about my library love before, so today I’ll write about this dumpster fire of a country.

The “health”care system in this country is fucking garbage. Straight up trash covered in barf.

It’s expensive, inefficient, and frequently inhumane.

As you well know I had a stroke last year that left me with limited ability to work. The stroke cost me roughly $21,000, and that’s just the hospital stay part. That doesn’t count follow-ups, prescriptions, and all that jazz. When I was in the hospital I was diagnosed with diabetes. I had to pay $340 out of my pocket to take a “diabetic education” class where a condescending lady saw the I was fat and told me I’d had to stop drinking Coke (I don’t drink soda) and start eating vegetables (which I already did).

Ugh. I still hate that lady.

So I did my taxes last night and my income for 2023 was $5000 less than what my stroke cost. I originally thought it was $3K, but my eyes are bad and I misread a 6 as an 8. Oh, and I still have to pay in $2500.

America!

I’m literally getting by on GoFundMe donations and the fact that I’m really good at being poor. I can’t go anywhere because I can’t drive which makes not spending money even easier. Plus, the only debt I have is medical debt.

We’re supposed to be the greatest country in the world with the best healthcare and that’s a bunch of hooey.

Today, I FINALLY got to make an appointment with a neurologist that my primary care doctor wants me to see. I took the first available appointment. It’s on August 7th.

That’s right I had to wait more than three weeks to make an appointment that’s four months away.

AMERICA!

I hate it here.

Jodi

P.S. I stole the title from the Allen Ginsberg poem “America”. If you don’t know the poem be forewarned that it uses the N-word and other racially insensitive language.

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