9pm

All too often I get into a spell with my depression that results in me feeling worthless. I’m there right now. I can’t get this apartment finished. I can’t keep up with everything I’m supposed to do. And the shittiest part is that I don’t even have that many responsibilities. Basic chores, an easy from home job that tends to average only ten hours a week, and my kid in daycare three days a week. This should be easy.

But as I struggle to move past the crushing disappointment of losing a job I loved through no fault of my own and the crazy spinning feeling that is my new married life, I find myself unable to figure it out. Monday Mr. Owl got so fed up he aggressively did most of the chores I’d been procrastinating for two weeks in about an hour. I sat on the couch in a terrified, paralyzed ball because that behavior from my father growing up never ended well.

I’m trying. But I’m not trying. I should be trying harder. This isn’t hard.

But I lay here tonight instead, eyes full of tears, sinking deeper, alone in bed at only 9pm. I feel worthless. I’m waiting for the spell to break. Surely he’ll realize his mistake soon in picking me.

image

Advertisements

Picky Eaters and I Stole a Cat

I wonder if all the writers of the picky eaters posts I’m finding on Pinterest realized how many of them would be used by an adult who is pickier than her almost-four-year-old…

In other news, I stole someone’s cat yesterday. Continue reading “Picky Eaters and I Stole a Cat”

Too Many Dishes to Do Dishes

When your sink is too full of dishes to¬†do the dishes…

I’m currently in that boat. Our dishwasher is shit, so I have to practically hand wash everything before putting it in just to make it come clean, but right now the sink is over full and I’m just too annoyed to address the issue at the moment. Tonight might be a fast food night. I won’t have kiddo back from her dad’s until seven tonight, so my guilt will be minimal.

Yeah… Fast food. Continue reading “Too Many Dishes to Do Dishes”

“We don’t own a broiler pan…”

The phone is ringing.

It’s my husband, calling as he always does as he drives home from work. It’s likely been a long, hard day. It always is, and I say that with sympathy, not annoyance. He loves his job, but it takes a toll. He works in stocks and investments and it’s tax time.

I pick up the phone.

“We don’t own a broiler pan and we don’t have any foil!” I whine miserably as my greeting. Continue reading ““We don’t own a broiler pan…””