waningestrogen

I hate it in my husband, but I’m guilty of it myself. In him I call it the sin of omission but when I do it, I justify it by labeling it ‘things best kept to myself’. It’s no wonder I’m an enigma to him. I haven’t really let him know me. If I think it may cause conflict, I just shut up about it instead of expressing my feelings, and that’s really self-destructive behavior.

why must I save everything? fear of mortality? keeping things won’t buy my ticket to being immortal to the end of days. actually, I think I do this for my own memory jogging, but I have to stop it. there’s nowhere left in the house to sit. that’s an exaggeration, but not by much.

I was born pessimistic, but I wasn’t always as negative about things as I am now. If I’m not able to turn things around soon, I’m likely to completely withdraw from outside contact. I’m the wet blanket, the cloud that follows you around, the passive-aggressive one skirting along the fringes of the conversation. I know I should be able to do this.