Stephen King said it best, 'We stopped believing in monsters under the bed when we realised they we're inside of us.' I apologise if I didn't get that 100% accurate but you get the gist of what I'm saying.
Earlier today I said it was a tough day. Yeah, well, it became a bad day. Very quickly. To the point I bundled the kids in the car and drove aimlessly for twenty minutes, simply to try and get number two to sleep, number one not bored and a change of scenery for all of us.
I was that mad when I left home I could have relished being an Indy 500 driver about then, being able to put my foot down and fang it until my rage was spent. But alas, I'm not. So instead I was satisfied with merely driving. I could have cried, I could have screamed. But I had the kids with me. So I just brewed, pondering my thoughts as I drove.
The most reoccurring theme was how mad I was at myself. Which brings me to my next item to share. In no way do I claim to be a victim. I don't blame the weather, the economy or my neighbours barking dog for the way I am. The blame, ladies and gentlemen, rests squarely on my own shoulders. What I struggle with, especially when I hit these low times, is that there is a good portion of it that I cannot change. I will always have mental health issues to some degree and it's this little tidbit of glaringly obvious knowledge that infuriates me the most. Surely at some point I've served my sentence. Surely at some point I've suffered enough. Surely, surely, I must be rewarded with some sort of normalcy at some point in my life.
But as hubby so rightly put it this afternoon, 'you're a mother'. Yep, exactly. See how we seem to always end up back at square one?
But that's it. I know being a mother is the catalyst for all my issues coming to the forefront. What I want to know is how do I change? Every time I think I have it figured out the game plan changes and I'm left midfield without support. There has to be a way to deal to this way of life.
Just, where the hell is the person who can tell me what that is?
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