This amuses me.
As I type, I sit on my couch. My son is playing Minecraft. He is currently killing a zombie will simultaneously trying to save his best friend. In an hour I will take him to karate. He is four. He has a red-stripe belt and is very proud that he is the youngest, but highest ranking belt in his class.
Tomorrow, I will take him to four hours of preschool. I will go for a run while he is in school. I will go to the grocery store. I will do the random chores I have to do to keep the house running. It might include picking up a Papa Murphy’s pizza, or it might not. This depends entirely on whether or not the husband is feeling fat. If his stomach is protruding too far past his pants then pizza is out. I am not sure what is for dinner then.
Saturday I will go camping with my son and husband along with another father and his two boys. I will effectively be the mom of the weekend, which means that I must ensure that everyone has food, is somewhat clean, and in general does not die.
On Monday, I will take my son to school for his fours hours. I will come home and do laundry, go to the grocery store, vacuum, and clean the bathroom.
Tuesday there is no school. I will try very hard to keep my son from watching too much television and playing video games all day. I will take him to the store. I will take him to the park. He will end up watching too much television and playing too many hours of video games anyway.
I will take him to karate.
I do our families finances. I cook our family food. I do our family laundry. I clean the family home.
I occasionally golf.
I try not to gain weight by running and doing the elliptical.
I cry almost every single day while standing in the shower because I am ashamed at how terrible I feel about the privileged life I lead.
I suppose, my dear reader, you saw that one coming.
The dichotomy between having the privilege that so many women covet, and the terrible, horrible guilt of being miserable in it. Not because it is hard, though it can be a challenge, but rather, because it is not hard.
My brain has atrophied.
I am dying.
And I have no answers.
I have chosen this life because it the best for my son. He does not have to go to a daycare. I am raising him, not someone else. He has someone who can take him to whatever extracurricular activity he wants to be involved in with no worries. I don’t have to juggle work and school schedules, or work and sickness. I am on call 100 percent of the time, and not just for my son. My husband works continuously. He has a one track mind. The only thing he is able to accomplish is work. I allow him the space to work like that by taking care of everything else. The world would cease to turn if he had to do anything more than work.
I have PURPOSEFULLY and with FULL UNDERSTANDING made the decision to have this life.
I am dying.
Not in a real physical sense. I am in good health. We all are, thankfully. I would never consider suicide because of my son. But it doesn’t change the feeling. The soul-sucking, I am becoming less and less and less of who I am. I losing. I am lost.
And I have no solution.
I went to a therapist the other day. She essentially told me to stop complaining about my awesome life. Ha! That’s the thing. I KNOW about my awesome life.
Why can’t my brain get with the program.
What can I do to change? I don’t like being miserable.
This is anonymous. I don’t want the vultures to come down on me, reminding me of how much I should be thankful for… my husband reminds me constantly, wanting to know what the f*ck my problem is… if I knew, I would change the problem.
It is identifying the problem. Figuring out the solution.
Welcome to the cliche.