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I’m going to be 40 next year. In six months actually.

40.

I hate that number.

Right now, I hate it more than anything.

How did I get so old without accomplishing anything?

When I was young I had dreams and aspirations but as I grew they became unfocused and seemingly unattainable.

I know why. But I’m not ready to talk about that yet.

I can feel it gnawing at me though. Almost daily. And the depression weighs me down so much some days that it’s hard to function.

But I do.

I get up and take care of my kids.

I feed the cats and give them water.

I let the dogs out and tell them what good girls they are.

I get dressed, although I rarely care what I look like, I do it.

I function.

Barely.

This is me today. Feeling the burden of things I cannot let go weighing me down more than yesterday.

Maybe tomorrow will be better.

 

 

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