Today I went back to UEA library to get lost in some more books, but it didn't go so well.
I'd wasted £3.80 bus fare, as well.
When I handed across the same ID I'd used before (an old passport, the sole actual identity document I possess, and a crumpled-up phone bill) they pointed out that I hadn't provided proof of my address.
My god, that hurt! Not because it's a practically-insuperable problem, because it isn't (I can probably provide an old form letter from my doctor if I look hard enough) but because it brought me smack up against one of my weak spots.
I hate being reminded, even by implication, that I'm not a real person, just an empty consumer. Real people have documented proof of their existence. They have driving licenses (I don't particularly want
to drive, but I'm somewhat envious of proof-of-competence and something they can take with them everywhere as a matter of course). They have jobs and pay their own bills (the assistant kept saying I could bring my utility bills, which didn't help). They've left some sort of mark on the world. They're not a mere hanger-on. Their address isn't the unmarked footnote to the Real Person living in the house. I have more official existence than the cats, but only just. The last thing I had with my name and address on it was my voting card, and that evidently belongs to the Government. So I will almost certainly find something to solve the immediate practical problem (probably attesting to being a passive consumer of NHS resources), but that does nothing at all to reduce the sense of misery.
It's safe to say I didn't handle this particularly well. I made myself small sitting in front of the desk and wept silently for a few minutes, then sat there putting my head together. I was more in the way than I realised, because they told me they'd have to call security, so I went outside and cried much, much more noisily instead.
I was in bits.
It took me an hour or two to come to the comforting realisation that since I am currently writing my autobiography, I am no longer quite as unproductive as I thought. Whether or not anybody likes it, I'm at last putting the work in on a project, so I'm not only a consumer.alien_infinity
may note here, incidentally, that while I may be good at giving her advice on Stupid Brain Tricks (mainly because I get them) I'm hardly a shining example of real-world competence myself...
The annoying thing is I'll tell Boyfriend when he comes in, and he'll point out exactly what Useful Envelopes I have while remaining quite impervious to the issue about my feelings (because he doesn't overvalue jobs etc the way I do, so he'll explain that I'm not being properly objective).