My balloon has deflated. My firecracker has fizzled. My soda has ceased to be carbonated. I have no fight left in me and this is coming from someone who tried 45 times to get through to some other government agency last month to explain that we shouldn’t have been assessed a late fee and penalty on our property tax bill because we’d never even been billed the first time.
And that total was about $23 extra. I was willing to fight for $23. I was unable to, however, because said government agency’s phone was busy every time I called. Maybe they can take that extra $23 I sent them and install roll-over voice mail on the line that stays perpetually busy. But oh, that would require paying someone to return the call and we just can’t have that, can we?
Craig is going to handle the medical fiasco. I told him I didn’t think I could play nicely. He’s seen my balloon fly around the house this week and he sees it lying limp on the floor now. He knows I’m in no position to do anything about it.
I feel the need to add in here that I’m really not trying to sound all pity party-ish here. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for us. I’m just thinking that I’m the closest to depressed that I’ve ever been and I don’t like the way that feels. It feels out of control and all look-at-me-wrong-and-I’ll-cry-so-don’t-look-at-me, okay?
I got to purchase some pretty flowers today for a mystery shop and looking at them cheers me up a bit. My sister is set to arrive any minute now and I’m really looking forward to seeing her, so that should help, too.
And I can also gain perspective by realizing that all of our children are healthy and whole and we have a house to live in, a car to drive, and so much food that some of it goes bad in the fridge.
So why is it so hard to snap out of it? If you have a human patch kit and air pump, please come over here. I’m in need of repair.