Vent post #34949

I want to go home.

I want to go home and curl up in bed. Grab a cat or two. Something soft, that wants to comfort me.

Why can’t I tell the therapist how bad it is? Because she probably won’t take it seriously unless I’m sobbing like some theatrical person.

Every day, I feel the hill I’m climbing get a little bit steeper. And yet, the same expectations remain, and increase. I want a nice soft room to stay in, alone, in the dark. No one there but me. Just for a little while, not forever.

But there is no rest. There is no release. There is no relief. I must keep slogging on until the machinery of me finally fails. I almost look forward to this. The sustainability of my life is negligible.

And the great thing is, no one cares, and no one notices. My husband the manchild thinks life is about having fun, not taking care of responsibilities like maintaining a home. That is all on me, on top of working full time. The only thing he wants to do is sit and play video games and drink with his friends. He cannot understand why me or anyone else would feel suffering. He thinks I should be just what I am in his mind, some sort of feminine flirty overly sexual fantasy object. He is simple and happy, and cannot understand suffering. I’m happy for him, I wish I was the same.

I want to go home.

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