The Irony of Yelling Uncle

It's not been a good week here, and the last few days have been bad.  Really bad.

Friday was actually a pretty fantastic day, the only part of the week that I didn't hate with everything I have.

My friends made me meet them for lunch. They give me a hard time pretty frequently about the fact that I rarely make public appearances.  I'm perfectly content to hole up in my house, and over the past few years and all the stuff that has gone down, I've found that it's usually better for me to avoid other humans.

I'm terrible at feigning interest in small talk, I can't rally behind people who complain about things constantly but never do anything to fix them, and I have bigger things going on than worrying about whether my kid lost their lunchbox or if soccer practice will be canceled on any given Tuesday.

It seems like there's always something bigger going on around here.

And I'm tired.

It's been like this for three and a half years now.

There are times, when I'm wallowing in my hole, wondering what the hell happened.  When just about every facet of my life is messed up beyond anything I could have ever imagined, I can't help but start wondering if it's some cosmic game, if it's some divine test, if life's just a raging bitch, or if it's me.

I tend to carry a lot of blame for things that weren't my fault.  I know that rationally, it makes no sense.  That these things would have happened regardless of what I could have ever done differently.  That other people made choices.  That sometimes shit just happens.  That genetics suck, that autoimmune diseases are assholes, that the apples don't fall far from the tree.

I wanted to run outside last night into the cold air and scream uncle.

I didn't.

Mostly because doing that would have just pissed me off more.

I am really angry right now.  Beyond angry, actually.  So angry that I know that I can't call him right now because I know that I can't control my anger.

And I'm worried.  And I'm hurting.  And I'm sad.

And I'm powerless to do anything to help.

I can't change anything.

I can't make it better.

I can't fix this.

It would have been nice if he told me when he should have. If he thought for even one second that I deserved to know.  If he could have put aside whatever he thinks about me, whatever he believes, and just been human long enough to pick up the phone.

It would have been nice.

But that's not how things work around here.

I could really go for a few months of boring monotony.