This is just one of those crap days when my mood grows even darker than usual. No matter how many times I tell myself it’s a passing feeling, that part of it’s physical, and so on, I feel like the hounds of doom are nipping at my heels.
You know, it doesn’t much help to think, boy there are people in a lot worse situations, I should be grateful.
It’s weird how being grateful doesn’t translate into being happy.
And happiness may not be everything, but it sure helps one have enough energy to give a damn what happens and to actually get done what needs doing.
The lack of energy, the inability to organize my thoughts or to plan and set goals, it makes me feel like I’m failing my family. Myself, too, of course, but I really hoped to create a better, more stimulating environment for the girls.
Last night I kept thinking that I would end up dying like my mom, of leukemia, the disease of fatigue. She was always tired, and then she finally had a good reason to be tired.
Whatever I was meant to do, I definitely feel like it is too late. Or maybe there wasn’t anything in particular, or maybe it called for more self-discipline than I could or can summon. It may be pathetic, but my hope is for my children. I hope this mental plague skips them, that they will know what they want and find joy in the pursuit. I don’t think I walk around looking mopey and depressed. I do genuinely enjoy things, like reading a book, or listening to my girls, or holding hands with my husband, or hearing the birds. I laugh at jokes. These moments are the stepping stones that get me from one side to the other, from moment to moment and day to day.
Enjoyment doesn’t translate into happiness either.
Maybe I don’t mean happiness, but something more like “zest.” I have no zest.
Just writing that out makes me feel a teensy bit better. The rhythms of writing and reading are so soothing. No zestier, though.