You know, I’ve really tried to keep a positive attitude through all this. I really have. But I’m so done. I’m fed up with everything, and everyone. Kaput. Done.

I just fell stepping over a basket of dirty laundry in the laundry room. I yelped and slid down the wall as my right leg went one way, and my left the other. I fell hard enough that I knocked the leg askew on the back table when I slid into it, and no one even came to see if dear old mom was OK. Jeffrey had refused to bring down his laundry, and David dumped two baskets. The baskets I was stepping over.  I’m mad.

We now have FOUR birds. My husband devotes more time to the birds than to us. I get it. They ask nothing of him, and sixteen months of unemployment is hard on a man’s psyche. I get it. And the birds are about the least harmful habit he could have picked up. I get it. I’m even fricking happy about it. But FOUR is enough. No more. And stop bathing them in my shower- I don’t want to pick pieces of birdie poop off the walls. Enough.

There are apple skins by the TV, despite no food being allowed in the family room. There is a pudding cup on the floor where Jeffrey dropped in while he was bitching about his stupid homework and demanding a calculator to do simple addition.

I was so busy trying to put the groceries away, I completely forgot about my piano lessons today. The one thing that’s just for ME, and I forgot it.

I’m sick of feeling like an unpaid maid. I’m sick of endless laundry, endless messes on the floor, of picking up socks and stray toys on the stairs and trying to keep all of our chins up. SICK OF IT.

I’m sick of diapers and cannot figure out why Abby just doesn’t care if she sits in poo. Yuck already girl, the boys cared, why don’t you? Ew.

I’m sick from having to go to the DHS offices today because we are all out of freaking money.  We got foodstamps. We live in an upscale neighborhood, but we haven’t had regular work in a year and half, and I have FLIPPIN’ foodstamps. I want to throw up. It’s not about pride. It’s about what next? The lady at the DHS said I would qualify for more if I were unmarried. If I got pregnant, unmarried, they would even pay my rent. I’m sick.

SIXTEEN months we’ve lasted. In sixteen months we have never so much as been a DAY late on our bills. We used our six-months reserves. We used our savings. We used our cashed-in 401K. We used everything we could possibly scrounge up. What next? WHAT NEXT?! Are we supposed to fall on our faces? Are we supposed to fail? What am I doing wrong? Are we supposed to lose the house we worked so freaking hard for? Is this what lays in wait for me next?

How do I get out of this hell?

Now, I have to go ice my knee before I go meet the Bishop in half an hour.

DAMMIT!

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