I am so sick of being me.
I am so sick of being unhappy.
I am so sick of feeling mediocre.
Looking at others’ lives fills me with sadness, either for them, or for myself.
I play at being wise- giving others advice about choices and changes, yet I don’t seem to be able to do anything for myself.
The last few days have been filled with anxiety.
My creativity waxes and wanes, usually rearing its head at highly inappropriate times like driving a car or walking with the kids, or at the shops.
The desire to write, to create is totally gone by the time I am home, in front of the computer, or in the kitchen struggling to imagine dinner into being.
My mind is totally preoccupied with the need to find shelter. To move house again. To not have to make do without heating or cooling or a backyard.
I am tired of moving. I am tired of compromises.
I am afraid of the future.
I don’t trust myself to bring into being the things I want most.
I feel inadequate for the task at hand.
So much responsibility.
I just want to sit down. I want to rest. I want to feel safe.
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