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So I came in to work all geared up to write this long diatribe about how I hate myself, my life, my job, blah blah blah.  And then before I could get to it, Nathan strolled in to my office, bringing me a caramel frappe from McDonalds and telling me to have a better day.

I love that man.

I am still feeling the hate, but I am no longer as filled with it as I was earlier.  Sadly, I don't know which is the truer emotional state.  Did Nathan's thoughtful gesture bring me back to myself, or did it just mask the real feelings inside me?

I don't know the answer.

I had a bad morning.  Well, I guess technically I've had a bad series of days, weeks, months.  There are so many, many things I hate about my life.

I hate how excruciatingly tired I am all the time.  
I hate how lazy I am.  How I would, and almost always do, choose to lay around and do nothing when I should be up and at it.
I hate how fat I am.  That I only have two pairs of pants that fit, or that my new underwear --the only ones in my drawer that are comfortable -- are fucking gigantic.  I hold them up and can't believe they not only belong to me, they fucking fit perfectly.
I hate the hellhole mess that I live in.  I hate that I can clean the hellhole mess and have it back at hellhole state within two goddamn days.
I hate that I am a shitty parent.  I feel like I have to yell before my kids listen to a damn thing I say.  I hate yelling all the fucking time.
I hate that I made my daughter cry on her first day of 1st grade.  I was yelling.  Because she wasn't listening.  What the fuck - why can't I put a leash on my temper?
I hate that I have absolutely no patience.
I hate that I am not a sunshine and roses type of person.
I hate the 72 loads of laundry that are always waiting for me.
I hate the white walls in my bathroom, seeing the pictures sitting on the floor upstairs instead of on my living room walls, the carpet in my kitchen, and that no matter what we do to the house all I can see is everything we can't afford to do.
I hate having to go to work every morning.
I hate having to get up at 5:15 am.  That's ridiculously fucking early.
I hate being late for every fucking thing.
I hate having to parent on my own for five days in a row while Nathan is at work.
I hate having Nathan at home for five days in a row, because I start to rely on him way too much - and then he goes back off to work, leaving me floundering.
I hate that my kids are always full of these fun, original ideas and I always end up shooting them down because they're too complicated or I don't want to put that much effort into helping them or I can't find a way to make it work.  I don't know why I can't just tell them to go for it and try my best to help.  I hate that I am stifling their creativity all the time.
I hate the people who tell me, "Just take online classes!  If education was really important to you, you'd find the time."  Fuck you.
I hate living in Virginia, so far away from our family that my kids don't know their own aunts, uncles and cousins.
I hate the thought of leaving Virginia, where we've made some wonderful friends and our kids have established a place for themselves.
I hate the fucking budget.
I hate that Nathan has Wednesdays and Thursdays off, because it means he is always working when I have a Monday holiday.
I hate that the public pools close after Labor Day weekend.  What the fuck, it's still hot as fuck.  Assholes.
I hate the idea of flying out to California this month, because I don't really fit in the plane seats any more.
I hate that I'm terrified of our day at Knott's Berry Farm, wondering if it's going to be a repeat of the 'get off, you're too fat' Busch Gardens episode.
I hate myself for being like this.  For wallowing. 
I fucking hate Mondays.

And I hate - hate - that there are so many things on that list I could change.  But I don't.  I don't change, I just go on hating.

I don't want my kids to live like this.  I don't even want them to know I live like this.  I feel so sorry for them, sometimes.  They're great kids, and they got stuck with me - they deserve someone better.

Nathan thinks I need to go back to the doctor, get back on my meds.  Wellbutrin, for depression.  That's what the doc prescribed, and what I took for a long time.  I stopped for reasons outside of depression or the lack of it, but I wasn't worried about it because the meds weren't helping - I still felt like this.  I don't think I was, or am, depressed - I think I just suck.  I need to make changes if I want my life to be better, and I'm not willing to make those changes.  Wallow wallow wallow - it's one of the few things I'm good at.

They say you can't make someone lose weight, that they have to want to lose it for themselves.  I think being happy is similar.  You can't make me be happy.  You can do everything in your power to make my life great and chipper and peachy, but you can't make me feel good about it.  I have to want to be happy.  I have to take the steps necessary to ensure my own happiness.  And no matter how much I love the people in my life, or how much I know that it's unfair for them to have to live with me, deal with me, while I'm in this state, it still comes down to my choice.  No one else can do it for me. 

I don't know why I'm not going to.  What can I say?  Change is hard.  I'm not good at it.  Leave me alone, so I can flounder and wallow and whine and be lazy.  And while part of me is shaking my head at myself, my heart knows that's where I'm going to stay, for now.  Maybe for always.


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