I woke with my Rage riding my back, clouding my vision, and filling my ears with the poison that is it's own particular brand of evil.
The house is a pit. Partly my fault, partly Mr. Barefoot and the sprouts' fault. But I can't stand it. And I am furious. I try to clean, and Little Sprout is underfoot wanting to play in the mop water or stealing the broom and dustpan. Spiderwebs hang low on the basement ceiling. I try to clean them up, and their clinging strands fall on my exposed arms. I scream like a girl and spend 20 minutes scrubbing the memory of them off my skin.
It is not a good day, no matter how much I try to breathe and be calm.
I look around at all the crap we have, and I want to rent a dumpster and just toss all of it. Every last memento of things we have done, every last piece of our past lives. I don't want them. I want the house to be the way it was when we moved in: full of possibilities, and not much else.
I think about going to work tonight, and the Rage whispers in my ear that I should just call and quit rather than go in for a 2 hour meeting that will accomplish the same as all the others before it: nothing. Reasoning with the Rage is useless, so I do my best to ignore it, reminding myself that poor wages are better than none, and that once I get through school I will be able to at least make enough moolah to make up for the inconvenience of working outside the home. Sometimes I believe what I tell myself, sometimes I don't.
Just thought y'all would like to know....