There are days. . .

when I, in all sincerity, dislike myself.  I wish I could be removed from my own presence, tired of the constant grumpiness and frustration.  Today is one of those days.

My head is pounding and I vacillate between being overheated and cold.  My skin is incredibly itchy, though I have no idea why.

I’m working toward what seems another futile project deadline.  Working and re-working the same design “challenges” are driving me to distraction.  It makes me want to just ignore the changes, because I’m well aware they’ll likely be different in two days time.

I’m envious, oh so envious, of women who have what I do not:  children (and the freedom to stay home with them), and gainful employment for their husband.  I know it isn’t true, but the thought that “if only” I had these things, life would be perfect tortures me.  Obviously, it wouldn’t.  I’d trade one set of heartaches and challenges for another.  Still, it plagues me.

My strongest impulse is to hide.  To run away from this overwhelming sorrow and hopelessness.  I know I should stay; I should reach out to someone, beg God to help, be it by changing our circumstance or by changing my attitude.  But, oh, the energy that takes.  The strength.  I just don’t feel as though I have any to offer.


(Aside:  yesterday was the Hubs’ birthday, and I completely forgot to weigh-in and post for CDC.  I plan to do that tonight.)


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