Yesterday I went off, venting about how tired I was. I'd spent 5 or 6 hours cleaning, particularly the kitchen, and I was exhausted. I'd finally reached the point where I realized I can't do it all--I can't train for an Ironman, I can't go to graduate school, and I can't work full time. It just won't happen. And I was pissed because the kitchen was filthy and I felt like I was the only one who cared about how clean the house was.
I probably shouldn't have done that because then I got an earful of why everything is my fault. And you know what? It is. I was the one who quit a steady paying job. I'm the one who can't seem to get a decent' paying one since. I'm the one who parked my car in an alley so that it was broken into. I'm the one who left the security door open so that we were burglarized. It is all, indeed, all my fault.
This is the first time I've felt so much like a complete and utter failure. How nice to know he thinks so, too.
The worst thing is that I can't even kill myself. I don't have any life insurance, so it would just be an added expense. I just have to go on living every single day knowing what I've done to devastate us financially. It's all I think about. There's no relief.
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