Tired
I feel like I’m a house of cards, precariously balanced on a razor’s edge. I feel like the slightest puff of wind will send me toppling, that the slightest tremour will send me crashing down.
I won’t, of course. I’ve withstood far more in my life, but I’m tired this week.
I’m tired of being poor. Of never having any money. I’m tired of the constant juggling of want and need, of living with a constant calculator in the back of my mind, or living with the consequences when I don’t.
Balancing, I get. That feeling of standing on top of a spinning ball, rolling with it and not falling off. That I can do. But I hate this feeling I’ve had the past couple of weeks of constantly having the rug pulled out from under me. Like everytime I think it’s done, that nothing else irritating, frustrating, or just plain crappy is going to happen, I lose my bus pass, get an unexpected bill, break the zipper on my favourite pair of boots, or find out that our boundary exemption for Diva Girl’s school won’t be renewed for next year.
I’m tired of feeling like I’m being pulled in a thousand different directions, and like I’m breaking and not bending under the pressure.
I’m tried of Diva Girl’s whining about the indignities of having to do her homework all by herself. I’m tired of the Shaolin Toddler chasing the cat and then screaming when it bites her. I’m tired of the toys and clothes and crumbs scattered throughout my apartment. I’m tired of hearing my angry voice.
I’m tired of feeling stressed and worn out and like there’s a storm cloud over my head. Somebody tell me something good.