Feral outburst

Feral outburst in 3…2…1: I don’t want to do this anymore. I feel like I’m clawing my way through quicksand. I’m on the struggle bus and it’s a short bus at that. Stress, menopause, and fat storage have created the trifecta of chronic health issues in my body and the more I shovel the more the manure keeps piling up. Three prescriptions – ten supplements, no dairy, no gluten, no peanuts, low carb, no oatmeal, no noodles, fruit restrictions – and now the dreaded Darthomatic and I must partner again. I LOATHED the CPAP machine with a fire and fury equivalent to a metric ton of NAPALM. The absolute last thing I want is to deal with a nightly face sucking, air blowing machine from the third level of HELL. Hear my heart. I know it could be worse. But my inner toddler is face down, limbs flailing and screaming please, when is it going to get better? And today? If all this is my indefinite future – militantly hawking every single thing that goes on my plate – downing a plethora of pills and literally sleeping with the enemy – with minimal real change in my girth or my mood what is the point? End Tantrum.
I’m compliant. I’m disciplined. But I’m also disillusioned. And I’m momentarily struggling to get over myself when myself is the freaking problem. I need a good cry, a two-minute hug, and a chat over tea with someone who really loves me. Instead, I’ll be taking a trip to the basement to exhume the Darthomatic and binge watching Fresh off the Boat. Peace. Tomorrow will be a better day