Lost Saturdays

Aggravated. Jittery. Clawing at the walls, at the air, at my own face.  The pain in my head is relentless.

He wants me to get a full-time job. Okay, doing what? I have been on a register for thirty-five years. All the dreams I had are gone, the skill-sets rusty or useless, my ambitions crumbled to dust. I feel so ground down, I no longer take pride in myself or my surroundings. I worry for the idling’s future: I think we have failed her as parents, that she isn’t ready to face the world as an adult. I look back and wonder which choices I made, that I should have made differently.

I hate this house,  this city, this culture, this political mess, this job, this person I have become. I want to hide…beneath my blankets, in a cave, under a rock….I want to run away, but I have nowhere to go, no way to get there, and nothing to do once I am gone from here.

No more celebrating my birthday. I have out-lasted my usefulness by 20 years.

About Mad Annie, Bronwyn, Ann

I am a wife.mother, writer, cashier (hey, it helps pay the bills), Pagan who sometimes thinks too much. A jackie of all trades and mistress of none
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