No amount of zoloft can mask the awful truth

I really didn't know whether to publish this post, although writing it was very helpful for me.

My friend sent me this article today. It almost made me cry.


I've just finished working eight days straight at my new job, including Good Friday and Easter Sunday, where the following happened:

• As a casual staffer there were no penalty rates for weekends or public holidays
  
• Someone died there on Friday night
• Which left me to deal with his paralytically drunk mourning family all weekend
  
• I was called a moron by a, ahem, moron
• I was forced to approach a riotous party of about 30 people (a 40th birthday) to ask them to mind their language as there were children about. I was, naturally, then pawed by a blind drunk buffoon in his mid fifties telling me to have some fun.
  
• Someone gave me a really nice bottle of wine (yay!)
  
• On numerous occasions I was held personally responsible for the rain
  
• I mopped and vacuumed the floors about fifty times
• The response involving sexual favours to the question 'how can I help you' wore very, very thin indeed
  
• On Thursday I opened up at 7:30am, left to pick the kids up from school at 2pm, went back and worked until 9pm.
  

I can't believe I've been reduced to this. I used to have the makings of a glittering career in finance, where people invited me to meetings and listened to what I had to say and paid me some respect. I wore expensive shoes. Had facials. I exercised, was taken to flash restaurants and I was thin.

Now here I am, almost 40, on the scrap heap, taking crap from idiots and mopping floors for a pittance, wrinkled and fat from responsibility and work, and if I want some spending money I have to answer to a man. I'm consumed with guilt for having a dirty house and couldn't care less if I never had sex again.

And all because I got married and had two children.

If I had my time over again (which, of course, I won't, making this lesson even more stern) I wouldn't make that mistake again.

Right now, the best advice I could give my daughter would be not to get her hopes up.

And that is why male doctors prescribe anti-depressants to women. To stop us from getting angry and keep us fat, dumb and happy. I doesn't always work.

(Please don't tell me to pull myself together and count my blessings. I'm all too aware I should do this, making me feel guilty for being so selfish does not help.)

I realise, of course, that this too shall pass. I'm trying, at least, to knit through it.