Monday, May 24, 2004

I'm Mad!

Arrowhead fell down the stairs last night. Well, two stairs. We found him there this morning. It didn't seem to phase him any, because he was sound asleep. I came home at lunch and he had wedged himself behind his crate. That sucker is gonna be a handful. I am going to write a little book someday called The Adventures of Arrowhead, A Wiggly Puppy.

Do you ever fear that you are turning into a nasty, bitter version of yourself? On a blog I just read, the writer called herself a "villain." Sometimes I feel like that. Some days, like today, I get overwhelmed by jealousy and anger. And the off-putting thing is that it's not directed at anyone in particular. It's just jealousy and anger towards the whole human race. I feel like the Avril Lavigne parody that Amy Poehler does on Saturday Night Live. "Oooooo! I'm mad! Look at me! I'm MAD!"

Jason asked me the other night, "Aren't you ever satisfied and happy?" That's where I feel I am going nuts and being irrational. My whole life, I've been like this. I have a great life and yet...happiness eludes me most of the time. My husband is pretty happy. He loses his temper sometimes, acts like a patootie (see last Thursday's entry), needs to be alone quite a bit...but basically, he's happy. In every job that he's had since I've known him, he's been content. He was content when he was at UPS, waking up at 4 am to unload trucks. He was content working in a grocery store, coming home smelling like spoiled milk. He loves the jobs that he has now (that's right-- "jobs"-- he also has a part-time counseling gig on the weekends.) It drives me crazy that I just cannot let things go and enjoy life. He said to me once, "I sometimes wonder if I'm going to come home one day and you'll have checked yourself into a psych ward." He doesn't say this with fear, just an observation. He actually sees that a lot ("A LOT") in his weekend job. Normal, rational, slightly depressed, middle-class women suddenly snapping and deciding that they can't take it anymore. They check themselves in, talk to my husband for awhile, then return to life as usual. Jason says that these women are some of his best patients, because they truly want to be happy and work on it. But (as Shelley once said) their lives are like frogs in a boiling pot of water. They don't realize that they are boiling with discontentment until they snap.

So my husband thinks that this is going to be me. I'm going to wake up one day and say, "Well, that's that. To the looney bin I go." Actually, I've always secretly thought a trip to the psych ward would be a nice vacation. To lay there for a few weeks and not be responsible for a dadgum thing. I wouldn't have to pick out my clothes, much less iron them. I could read comic books all day. If I said or did anything odd, it would be written off as "crazy." I'd even enjoy the Psych Ward Jello.


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