Dear Daughter…

Sometimes, it sneaks up on me.  I do everything I can to keep it at bay, but every so often, before I can catch it, a tiny crack appears in the foundation of my strength and in sneak the Mean Reds.  A big sister to the Blues, the Mean Reds are nastier, gloomier, and as their name implies, downright meaner than the Blues, often reducing their victim to that state of wanting to curl up in the fetal position under the safety of a heavy duvet and not see the light of day, let alone another human being, for a least 24 hours. 

I, unwittingly, have found myself there.  I haven’t visited this place for quite some time, and I’ve discovered it’s a rather difficult venture when one is at the mercy of wee one who needs to be fed/diapered/entertained in 20 minute intervals.   Thus, rather than hide under the covers like I so desperately want to, I’m instead skulking around and spreading my misery with all those unfortunate enough to cross my path.  Boo.

I’ve felt the Mean Reds lurking in the shadows, and I’m loathe to admit their imminent arrival is a result of news of someone else’s – someone I don’t much care for – good fortune.  Just because this person has done absolutely nothing to earn this good fortune, but has rather fallen ass backwards into a pile of luck, this is not reasonable grounds for me to be so ridiculously childish- I know.  I do, I know.  But Reason, that annoying do-gooder friend nobody likes at a party, has no place in the house of Misery. 

Alas, the crack widens, and in flood bad thoughts and feelings, like water breaking through a dam.  And when the Mean Reds come barreling in, reason, rationality, and most importantly, self confidence, become tiny pebbles that get swept away with the tide, and I’m left feeling so incompetent, so inadequate, so inept, so raw.

I become consumed with doubts and worries about the bad decisions and mistakes I’ve made; (and continue to make with alarming frequency) I worry that I’ll never get things right and that I’ll be the worst mother in the world.  I stress about not giving my daughter something to be proud of me for; I worry that she’ll grow up and decide I’m a total failure and lose all respect for me.  Now, let me be clear, mes amies, these self doubts and worries – I hate this about myself.  Loathe it, in fact.  But I can’t seem to stop it.  I am always thinking everyone is doing everything better than me, that I’m standing in place while everyone rushes past.  I went to University with so many people who are now ‘somebodies’, and I fear I missed the boat.  I’m almost thirty.  I have no career.  I have no money.  I have no assets.  I have no real goals even.  I have no idea what to do next; I have no idea how to tackle my return to work, as my job commands much traveling and that would be rather difficult if not impossible with Lovebug in the picture now.  Money, of course, dictates a return, as debt is mounting with alarming speed.

Sometimes I just feel that I’ve really screwed things up for myself and my future.  I thought I was doing everything right, going to school and working and living on my own and yada yada yada… but I just seem to have failed miserably.  Every opportunity I manage to set up for myself, I seem to destroy with almost unbelievable certainty.  I almost can’t believe the magnitude of my own mishaps.  I keep thinking I’ll ‘grow up’ and get it right one day… but when, pray tell, will that be?  And why does it seem that everyone I know who’s done nothing but sit on the couch is suddenly so successful? 

Am I the only one who feels this way?

I didn’t start this post with the intent of throwing a pity party, of letting the Mean Reds take me over; indeed, I know I have much to be thankful for, and even as I write this a voice in the back of my mind is screaming ‘Hey!  You’ve got a husband who loves you and a beautiful daughter, so shut up you ungrateful cow!’  And I know that, I really do.  So maybe I’ll just take my own advice and shut up.