A year ago
I was in decent shape, 3 months after that I was in amazing shape.
Last fall I was wicked bendy, I haven't done any meaningful workouts in months. I feel gross in my own skin.
I went to do a workout today just some handstands and stretching not even anything exciting and I've lost so much strength. It's frustrating.
And then I thought to myself. What's the point? Why even try and get in shape? Why work out? You might build it up again but then the kids will be out of school and it'll all go for a shit again. It's happened 3 years in a row.
It's the same with everything. Writing? Journaling? Blogging? Everything's a dying art, living in a frozen pile of suck.
Like what's the point? I never get 10 minutes to myself. I'm suffocated completely by other people in incredibly unrewarding work. "So what are you doing now? You're just home with the kids? Still? Isn't that baby almost 4?"
No actually she's almost 5...
My worth is exclusively defined by the needs of others and mine don't matter at all.
I just want to be asleep. Indefinitely, wake me up when I can have a life again.
Too many years of this is temporary, it's what's best for everyone.
It's never been what's best for me. But that doesn't fucking matter at all.
I'll just play Pokemon and seethe at Lee while he watches fucking action movies. Maybe I'll throw the TV out in the snow and burn the house down. I want some meaningful change in my life, instead I've run out of Valium and probably need to up my antidepressant.
I don't give a fuck about Russia owning a part of my written depressive queerness. No one reads this shit anymore anyway and few of us were ever important enough for them to blink at.