The story I want to write is the one I probably never will. Or, What it’s like for those of us who have never had bourbon delivered to work.

The story I want to write is right here, under my fingertips, aching to get out.

To talk about how the last seven years have been a soul-killer, in large part because of money. Or the lack thereof. Where the dirty paper that is currency has put an enormous strain on my mental and physical health. Where I have felt like I am drowning, slowly, sinking under, even when I am emerging. Where I have felt as trapped as an animal, but I can’t gnaw off my own limbs to free myself; the trap was set in stone.

I would like to talk about how, since 2009, I have had to say ‘no’ many more times than I would like, despite the fact that I have a good job and health benefits.

To share with you what it is like to search for coins in jackets and old purses, just to put gas in the car.

To let you know how embarrassing it can be but how I have sucked it up and paid for things with change, knowing the cashier is looking at me, thinking, Really lady? $11 in quarters and dimes and nickles for bread and milk and cat food? And I have stood there and shrugged, thinking, Fuck pride. You do what you have to do.

About how much it stings to ask for an extension on paying for camp and school trips, just until you get caught up, even though you’re never really caught up. About asking the landlord — since you lost your own house, you rent from someone else — to please wait a few extra days on the rent; it’s coming, but you’re still trying to get caught up.

To let you know that even with health insurance, sometimes shit can go horribly wrong and you can end up out of work for weeks and months at a time, all the while trying to stay afloat, but you never really get caught up until you get caught up in a system that does not care about any of that.

I would like to take you to the pawn shop with me, where I have sold my late mother’s jewelry, in order to buy groceries for a week. My child needs to eat, after all. I would tell you how it feels to be fingerprinted in a pawn shop and sign a notarized document attesting to the rightful ownership of that jewelry; I’m not a thief, these things are mine to sell, and being broke shouldn’t be a crime.

I would tell you about how finding folding money in the pocket of a pair of $8 pants at the Goodwill is one of life’s greatest joys.

I would tell you about the times I’ve been given the wrong change — too much money — and I’ve given it back, even though I needed it. Because honesty has no price.

I can’t talk about it because it’s not only my story, and I don’t want to post the details of someone else’s life. But I can say this: that after 74 months, I can finally see the light that is the end of this nightmare, and it is just a few months away.

It’s said pride goeth before the fall. I don’t believe that. I’ve fallen, I’ve gotten myself up, and I am proud of doing that even when I didn’t think I could go on. I will walk away from this not humbled, but angry and cynical, for a little while, at least. But I will also be proud of what I have done, and finished, without taking the easy way out.

So I can’t tell you the story that I want to. But I can tell you this: If you think that having your favorite spirit delivered to work while you subsist on rice and cupcakes is hard? You don’t know hardship. And perhaps you might want to rethink that whole position.

Cheers.