Wednesday,
March 27, 2002

I'm tired.

Tired. Tired tired tired. Which is probably the reason why I didn't update until today (I'm starting with today's entry and working my way backwards -- the irritating thing is that I already have part of an entry done at home, so I'll have to integrate it later on tonight).

I think a lot of this is just due to stress -- it's gotten to the point where I don't even recognize I'm under stress anymore. Does a fish recognize it's in water? It's just the environment I swim in. And comparatively I'm not even under that much stress, as compared to other parts of my life. Maybe I just can't deal with it as well as I used to, I dunno. What I DO know is that I would like a weekend all to myself -- no work, no friends, no family, no calls on my time, no husband (and I'm sorry, Lyndon, but it's true -- I may be looking forward to your trip to Denver more than you are). 72 hours where I can be completely and utterly alone. What bliss.

I dunno. It's just gotten to the point where even well-meaning offers of support and consolation just seem like yet another drain on my time and energy. I don't want to be told that things will get better (or, worse yet, that I don't know how lucky I am), I don't want to be held or loved, I just want to be left alone. You know, I'll improve on what I said up there. Right now, my dream situation is where I go somewhere for 3-4 days (or, better yet, a full week) by myself, somewhere moderately pleasant but not overly "vacationish," and just recharge. Maybe I'll write, maybe not. Maybe I'll knit, or quilt. Maybe I'll go for walks, or just lie in bed and sleep. It would be a time when I wouldn't have to work miracles, or pull documents out of my ass, or provide support for anyone. When I could just be me, by myself.

That's a good title for a book, by the way. Gotta remember that.

It also doesn't help that I'm bloated three ways from Sunday, which makes me feel fat and depressed. I mean, the scale says I gained maybe 2-3 pounds, that's all, but I feel like I put on 20 and I'm overflowing from all clothing orifices. And the red red robin still hasn't shown up, goddamnit. I'm getting really tired of having a period that's more of a hit-and-run accident than a period (never know when it's gonna happen, how long it's gonna last, yadda yadda).

Don't even suggest that I'm pregnant. It's not funny. Wanna watch Melanie run screaming into the nearest fool farm? Present her with a report that the rabbit died. Yeah, that would just be the fucking icing on the cake.