Why I’m Not Happy

I probably should be, but I’m not. Despite how miserable it is, we still have a house to sleep in. My family is not on the streets. I can bathe and feed my children and put them in clean clothes. I have a job that I don’t hate and my husband will start his job soon. So why am I not happy?

I’m not happy because the woman we “live” with causes more problems for my family than I’m capable of handling calmly and rationally. I’m not happy because I cry every day for how my children behave because of this miserable and confusing situation we put them in. I cry for how utterly alone I feel in my suffering. I was barely getting to a point where I was starting to become a better person before it all got ripped away from me and thrown down this bottomless pit of shit. I cry because with our powers of misery combined, my grandmother-in-law and myself have put my husband in the middle of the most asinine, petty, bullshit arguments you’ve ever heard of. 

I have to fight the urge to run away every day. I’m fighting so hard to stay, but it’s a battle I fight silently and I’m afraid to talk to my husband about it because I don’t have enough strength leftover to argue, defend, or explain myself. I don’t think he sees it the same way I do because I’m not making much effort to reconnect with him. I’m so tired of hurting I don’t want to open myself up to hurt again. Getting close to someone who’s hurt you is a very hard thing. I don’t know how he’s able to stay with me. I’ve hurt him so badly. I never meant to, but I did. My instinct is to run away from these kinds of situations, but I’m going against every urge and that’s hard. Really hard. I hope some part of him can recognize that my being here is my effort to stay and work things out. 

I don’t mean to be a pain in the ass, but I know I am. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to show love. And that makes me unhappy. 

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