Dead End

I live on a dead end street now. I'm trying not to think of it as anything with too much symbolic significance, but that's turning out to be difficult. Less than three weeks after we officially moved in to the new house, the one (1) gainfully-employed person in our household was laid off, as part of a huge wave of downsizing in the tech industry. He's been looking for a new job ever since, but of course nowhere is hiring, again because of the huge wave of downsizing in the tech industry. So far, our time in this place has been very unhappy and stressful.

The immediately obvious answer: hey, I should get a job! is not much use, because I have no work history, some long-standing medical issues that make me an unreliable employee, and I'm already a full-time caretaker for two ADHD/autistic adults and one teenage kid. I spend most of my energy helping people who have trouble with executive function, which makes me a kind of Executive Assistant—sadly, one who makes zero dollars for my efforts. It's necessary work, but exhausting and depressing.

The dead-end street I live on has a secret way out, though. If you're on foot, and you keep going beyond the pavement, there's a little path through a small patch of woods, and it leads to a slightly mysterious set of stairs.

So maybe what I'm trying to do is find out how to find the hidden escape from my metaphorical dead end. Even if it's only a rusting and crumbling set of ancient steps covered with poison ivy.