Monday, May 6, 2013

On Being Happy

I feel like I should stop wishing at night for good days, where we're all actually happy and healthy and loving our lives, and start just being thankful that we end our days alive and together. That sounds so morose and awful but it's the truth. Nobody is happy and every day we're here seems to be not another day we've been fortunate to live but another day closer to our inevitable ends. I miss being happy, and feeling like things are looking up. I miss that sensation so much. Instead I avoid my job and hide at home (rather, this house) desperately wishing I could raise my own children and hating money and being angry and bitter. But that's all this house is: anger, bitterness, and emotions so dark and pushed so far down that I don't even know if they have names.

Hubby has said for a long time that he thinks this house is making us all sick - and he's meant it mostly in the physical way, given the mold and other problems, but I know deep down he means emotionally too. It's a reasonable comment, which is even more sad. This place is toxic. My mother is toxic. Like most things that are bad for you, I can take a bit at a time but more than that makes me feel like I'm dying inside. I don't mean to be overdramatic; this has been my life with her. Impossible to please, forgetful, full of blame and the need to ensure that if she is miserable, so are the rest of us. The memories and emotions tied to this house are, for me, not positive. They're a mess for Hubby too. Being here is driving us into an emotional pit of despair and there's hardly a rope or ladder long enough to rescue us.

At this point I'm mostly griping. Mentally I'm not coping well - neither of us are - and while the end is in sight it feels like it's a million years away. That is a hindrance for sure.

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