I love B, I do. But right now, I just want to scream at him.
He’s complaining to me about how the cast iron pan his mother got him for Christmas is too big for the stove in his new apartment in Manhattan. At length and in detail.
Meanwhile, I don’t think I can afford to pay my electric bill and buy food this month. I hate him because that’s his big problem–his pan is too big. I want to scream at him that I cannot care about his cookware problems when I don’t know how I’ll afford to buy food to cook.
I try to be happy for him that he’s got a good life. It’s not without its problems, I know–he’s struggled a lot with depression for his whole adult life; his brother and sister can’t stand to be in the same state as each other. That’s stressful stuff. But his father is rich and powerful, and his family is never going to toss him out for being depressed. His parents are paying for his apartment in New York City, and his father got him into NYU. He knows his family will always love and support him.
And right now I hate him for that. It’s not fair of me, I know that. His privilege is not his fault. For a long time, I lived with that same privilege, and back then I didn’t really get what it was like to be poor either.
It makes me feel completely alone. There aren’t even words for it–it’s more than just loneliness. It’s a feeling of complete isolation and self-blame and self-hatred.I can’t stop blaming myself for my situation–my lack of money, my lack of family, my lack of anyone who would even notice if I never left the apartment again. B’s sitting in his apartment in Manhattan, telling me about his problems with his pan, and I can’t stop crying because even the person I love the most doesn’t understand.