Lately, I do not wake up in a very happy place.
No feeling like P-Diddy. No, I feel like Ass-Diddy. Who is P-Diddy’s broke, sad-sack, fat-ass cousin he hides in the Ozarks.
Yep. Play that funky banjo, y’all.
It’s not like there’s no reason for me to be sad and crabby. I’m stalled out in my weight loss (fucking plateaus), have about 10 too many “mommy” commitments (fucking drama program and asshole teenager who is refusing to learn to drive), my house is a sty (damn Facebook) and my husband is on a low-carb diet which means my cooking has had to take a radical left turn (mother-fucking mid-life crisis). Life, while not sucking per se, is a bit more challenging than it has been. I’ve tapered off my anti-depressants for a while to see if exercise and weight loss will address the depression without adding migraine headaches and the desire to drive my car off a cliff to the mix. I foolishly assumed anti-depressants might quell the self-destructive thoughts. Not so much.
But it’s hard to accomplish all I need to do, when I’m tired and my body aches like an 80 year-old. All I want to do is sleep. Even working out, which has been a high point in my day, is hard and leaves me exhausted. What the fuck? I’m on the verge of saying fuck it all and getting a box of doughnuts and a trashy novel. But experience tells me that will only make it worse. Instead, I’m going to turn on some 80’s hair metal and clean house. We’ll see how I feel afterwards. I might even go get that doughnut. Who knows? I’ll certainly have earned it.
Welcome to my jungle, chickens.