Construction Paper Confessional and a Revelation

Today I am sitting in the fellowship hall eating my zap-n-go lunch. Some kind of Asian fake-out. I stare out the large windows to the playground where the clouds hang overhead like a too-large sweatshirt on an anorexic supermodel.
I’m miserable. It dawned on me yesterday that I might be going through round 3 of depression. I constantly think of how my life could have been so different. I just don’t know what I did to screw it upso badly.
Well imagine that…not five minutes later, it is absolutely pouring outside. It sounds like my insides are cascading, having been overly swollen with the pain that has been seeping little by little.
I don’t like this meal too much. I think I will pick out the chicken and just eat it instead of the over mushed rice and “steamed” edamame.
Back to what I was saying. I hate feeling this way but I am having a difficult time getting through it. Is it possible to hate and like a thing at the same time? Because I hate and like my job. I hate that I feel unfulfilled, but I like seeing my babies at play and how happy the parents are to have a caregiver they can trust. I love how much my babies light up when I walk in the room. Especially Charlotte. Such an eager and sweet spirit dwells in that little body. I love that she watches my every move and seems to prefer me over the other teachers in the room. It makes me feel needed. I love that feeling actually. I always have. I need to be needed.
I have been thinking about my “friendships”. The ones I have “developed” while living here. I honestly don’t have anyone that I can really talk to. I have tried to be friendly, make new friends, have people over. I’m clearly not as good at is as I used to be. I’m rarely invited to things, and few come to mine. Why should I care? I am just an implant here. Why should they care? They already have their social groups tightly woven together like a blanket at a sewing circle. Maybe I am better off not here. Somewhere else, perhaps.
But I can’t go anywhere. Mom will nag me about my taking care of the car payment until I just want to slam my head into a concrete wall. She used to call and shoot the breeze…and I was the breeze if you get what I mean. Now she on;y calls when it is close to the thirteenth of the month…it’s just bills…bills…f*ing bills…over and over until she sounds as played out as a prostitute on a too familiar street corner. no one likes that just like no one likes the whore.
In the mean time I want to make something of myself but I am so sick of being such a failure. For once I want to breathe in and it be not the same infernal smoke that has damaged my lungs for these last, long years. I’m just too scared of being wrong again.

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