Perimenopausal Scrooge

It is almost Christmas and I have been sick for the better part of a day. At one point I couldn't walk straight because the pain was so strong in my gut. I resented my family for being at work or running errands. Who was going to take care of me? After I slept for a while, I felt better but still bitter. I think the anger was mostly aimed at myself. Worrying about my depressed children and being able to do nothing about it was eating away at my insides. They are big now. They are in charge of their lives. Do they take all of their pills or do they even remember to go to the psychiatrist? It's not my problem, is it? So why do I make it mine?

I'm sleeping upstairs when I hear the door slam and the dogs scamper. I keep trying to wake myself up, fearing I won't sleep at all as the night before. The kids have returned empty handed. Finding $10 gifts for Karl's relatives has proven daunting. I am mad that they left me alone and vulnerable. Angry that it took that long to come home with nothing. And upset that their absence even bothered me at all.

It's clear that our home and our family rituals are lacking. I feel responsible. Boring. Does this mean that if I were still working full time we'd be swinging from the rafters--of some other place? My life is simple, and it often doesn't bother me. Only when it comes up against someone's else's standards do I become self conscious.