Sometimes life just all around sucks, and this is one of those times

I've been so emo over the past month that I would even venture to admit that I am depressed. Circumstantially depressed.

Six weeks ago Scott decided to leave his job at the bike shop. He wanted a career, something that had the potential for growth, and he was right in that he wouldn't find it at the bike shop. He said he wanted to get back into the restaurant industry where he was a chef. It's crappy hours, but it's a lot more money.

So he called his old contacts and found a position at a local pizza joint. Excited, he took me there for dinner while he hashed out the details with the owner. I was stunned when I stepped foot in the place. It was a shit hole with three tables and a two-man staff. The owner would take the orders and the one pothead in the kitchen made the pizza. It was a Mickey Mouse operation; there was no room for promotion. He'd be leaving one dead-end job for another.

My woman's intuition was sounding off a giant alarm. Which was worse- the devil we knew at the bike shop, or the devil we didn't know at the pizza place? At least his position at the bike shop was stable.

I cut up a nasty, greasy bite with a fork and knife and frowned at it before easing it in my mouth. "You don't like the place," Scott guessed.

He's right, I hated it. I hated that I was sitting by the door and it was cold out and I was shivering from the draft. I hated the size of the place, I hated the location, and I hated that the food was terrible. I hated that my boyfriend would be no better than that pothead in the back.

But I hate telling people what to do because it makes me so blindingly enraged when people try to do it to me. Who am I to tell this person that's not my husband what he should do for a living? What right do I have a say in someone else's day job? Regardless of whatever I think, he should be happy with his work and I know he's not at the bike shop.

I chose my words carefully. "Where do you see yourself going with this job? I mean the only other person who works here is the owner and it's not like you're going to get promoted to that."

"No, I'd have to leave. This is just to get my foot in the door to the restaurant world. Get my name back out there."

I breathed a sigh of relief and let my fears go.

Scott lasted exactly four shifts.

It was totally his fault. He has no concept of pecking order in the workplace. He has issues with authority and doesn't know how to check his ego. And when he asked the owner how she was planning on succeeding at the restaurant with her current practices, he received a text message that expressly told him not to come back.

Gah, I was right about that place.

Now Scott was out of work and going back to the bike shop was not a solution. My paycheck was going to have to carry us both. And just so we're clear, I do not make enough to support two adults in the city. I make about 10 grand short of living comfortably by myself. Before Scott moved in I was on a strict budget of Ramen Noodles and eating spaghetti for four days straight.

Scott says it's stressful being out of work, but even when he doesn't contribute anything to the household, the lights still stay on. I mean, that has to be nice. I say it's much more stressful figuring out how to pay each bill on time and watching your bank account dwindle down to $150 by the sixth of the month while working a salaried job that doesn't pay overtime. I come home from work every day and ask him if he found work. When he says no, I sit on the edge of the bed and cry. "I'm just so stressed," I'd whimper.

"You're stressed? At least you have a job and money coming in!" he'd retort.

He doesn't get it.

This is all going on the same time as my health problems, which frankly might be related. I'm so stressed, I'm probably making myself sick.

And the car problems. I need a new car desperately as my SUV is becoming increasingly unreliable and not helping out the financial situation with its trendy 12 miles to the gallon and increasing gas prices. The check engine light comes on for a week and then goes off for a week, and I need to trade it in before that check light goes on permanently. I'm all ready by checking my credit and saving a down payment, but I can't incur another bill until I know Scott is going to be financially stable. I've lied to him about how much I have saved up for that car. I need that car, and I can't let his unemployment take that away from me.

I'm not going to be that girl who supports her loser boyfriend. When his phone gets shut off from not paying the bill, it's going to stay off. If his bikes go into collections, we're just going to have to pull them into the apartment to not get repo'ed. I'm paying my bills and the house bills. I can't afford to pay his debts as well.

I've become obsessed with keeping the apartment spotless. It's the one thing I feel I have control of in life right now. I typically opt for the "lived in" look, but for some reason I get so angry when I come home from work and see dishes in the sink. I huff and drop my bag and immediately clean while shooting Scott the stink eye.

"I was going to do them, but I only got home an hour ago," he'd offer.

"Well, you leave the house after I do and you get home before I do. It would be nice if you could do these things," I'd say.

"I just got home!"

"No, I just got home! You walked in the door and I still had to work for a half hour. You were on the couch while I battled traffic!"

This isn't me. The old me wouldn't even notice those dishes until Thursday. I changed the rules on Scott and then scolded him when he didn't magically know.

Thankfully, the only saving grace in all of this is that Scott and I aren't fighting when it seems like we have so many things to fight about. We're so close to rock bottom that we're leaning on each other and supporting each other. I certainly haven't painted him in an accurate light today. He isn't sitting at home watching TV and eating Cheetos while I slave away. He goes out every day and looks for work. We wrote his résumé together. He was there for me 1,000% when I had my biopsy, counting his quarters to scrape enough money together to buy me a box of Popsicles to soothe my throat. He called all of my family and gave them the updates when I didn't feel like talking. He rubs my back while I sob about the stress.

It's just a lot of stress right now.