I hate my life.
Maybe I'm just not grateful enough. Unlike others in the world, I'm not homeless. I'm not living in a war-torn country. I'm not a victim of abuse or addiction. I have food and clean water and even TV, internet access, a car and a cell phone. I have a husband and a cute puppy and parents and sisters.
And yet I still hate my life.
Nothing about it is satisfying to me. I can be "content" when things are particularly going my way--but it's like a fleeting contentment over things that really don't matter. Or it's relief that something terrible was avoided...but once that terror has been forgotten, I'm back to being nonchalant over everything I have.
Sometimes I convince myself that once I reach a certain milestone, I'll achieve happiness. When I was little, I thought I'd be happy by the time I was an adult and "making my own decisions". I'm an adult now--in my 30s--and now I'm hoping by middle age I'll somehow stop caring about what other people think or what I don't have. Ha
What problems were solved by my recent marriage were replaced with a whole new set. At least I'm smart enough (now!) to realize that I should never have children. Doesn't keep me from feeling a tugging in my proverbial womb everytime I'm around a beautiful baby. Fortunately, that's been overshadowed by the litany of reasons I've committed to memory about why my husband and I have no business having one. The result is that I'm simply bitter about the whole thing.
I honestly wish I could run away from my life. As if such a thing is possible. I have no way to even attempt that, except in my dreams. And if I'm going to dream for that, I might as well wish for a time machine to start over from the beginning but with whatever wisdom I've gathered thus far. Bar that actually happening... I don't even know. I just feel trapped in this negative spiral.