I will admit, I’m not feeling up to it today. Not that any Monday is particularly riveting, but today has been tough. I’m combating the usual Monday blah, which have called in reinforcements of self loathing, depression and anti-motivation brigades rendering me functionally inept and useless.
Still, the weekend was mostly good. Much was accomplished. Supplies for our upcoming vacation were purchased. Beer was made. White wine will be ready for bottling soon. But still, there’s a crankiness that settled over me that I can’t really seem to shake.
I hate feeling like this, like my diagnosis says I should feel and I have felt long before I ever received one. Most of the time, I’m trying to keep up appearances, in spite of every nerve screaming to crawl out of site and not be involved in whatever is going on. I struggle with an overwhelming sense of failure, of uselessness, of being a burden on the people that love me, inexplicably love me, in spite of all my drama, confusion, vacillation and weakness. I feel unworthy of it.