Don’t want to think

But I can't help it.

The same model as my townhouse two blocks away is asking $215K. Just a few houses down my street, with waterfront, they're asking $236K. We paid $250K. This is the part where the room spins, I feel like vomiting, and I want to just pass out.

Sometimes, you just can't win. No matter what you do, what you don't do, things are stacked way too high against you.

I can't for the life of me fathom what the future will be like. How will J and I survive as a couple under the stress we've been through for the past four years?

This is the myth of the man rolling the boulder up the mountain. I feel like I'm on the complete defensive with no way of staging a successful attack. Progress is just not in the cards.

I feel like I've done an injustice bringing two children into these circumstances so I try my best to make it up to them by playing with them and loving them and swearing to myself things will improve and I try so hard for them not to see the cracks in the foundation.

But of course there are cracks. And I've made some completely stupid decisions. I have to wonder if J has too and yet I think I know the answer is yes.

I can't decide if I'm too young for this kind of stress or just too old for this bullshit. Am I supposed to have my shit together yet? Did I rush things? Is the answer somewhere in the middle and if so that's just not comforting really.

I think I've officially reached the point where the two emotions I feel most often are anxiety and guilt, not necessarily in that order. I think I remember a time where I was content.

I don't do anything I love anymore. I don't have time. I don't have dreams. I don't bother with wishful thinking.

Colorful Cute is pretty much extinct. It's just a pile of stuff in the corner of my garage that I have to get the time to list on E-bay. Knitting has completely evaporated into a box of yarn that sits quietly in a corner. I have a great package of things for Andrea waiting for me to put it in a box, and to take it to the post office for her. I have lots of blank stationery waiting for words of greeting to be written across it. I have photos in envelopes and boxes. Empty scrapbooks. Empty baby books. A one year old without a single professional portrait. A humiliating bank account.

Guilt. Anxiety. Anxiety. Guilt.

Also numbness.

It's so easy to just not care at some point. Ever see Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood? Read the diary of Sylvia Plath? Seen the Pursuit of Happyness? For the first time, I am finding myself slightly understanding those women. The ones who abandon, who leave, who exit. The ones who resign. The ones who used to piss me off.

Ridiculous. Frustrating.

Time for a cocktail and bed.

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