I hate birthdays

Yes, I really do. Today was my 51st birthday. Over half a century, and I haven't done anything with my life.

The only thing I've accomplished that I set out to do was get a novel published. I did that. For what little it's worth. Two novels. Neither of which can be found in a bookstore - only online. I'll never get rich from them. And I don't even *feel* like writing these days. My muse must be as depressed as I am.

I'm still struggling to make a living - barely able to make ends meet. Robbing Peter to pay Paul. Working in a BBQ restaurant - a job that was supposed to be temporary when I started doing it 20 years ago. I hate the job. Working on my feet ten hours at a time is getting more and more difficult for me.

I can do so many other things - but since I'm 51 and have no *verifiable* experience doing those things, no one will hire me. No one will even *look* at me for another job. I feel trapped and that's making me depressed.

*Very* depressed. On a day when I should have been happy, all I could think about was that someone I work with finally got the nerve to say 'enough' and find something else to do. I wish him well. He's a great guy with a young family to support - something he wasn't going to be able to do working in a BBQ restaurant.

I don't have the money to get training to do anything else - and I'm not sure that I would qualify for any help to *get* the training. And even if I were to try to take some courses, I'd need some way to support myself and the family - and right now, I can't count on my hubby to do that. Of course, I've *never* been able to do that. That's how a 'temporary' job ended up lasting twenty plus years.

Damn. I hate my life. My *only* hope is that my daughter will get back on SSI and I'll have a *tiny* bit of wiggle room. But that's still at least another two months away.

Wish I knew which way to turn. And why I keep trying.