The fireworks have commenced and there will be little sleep for the next couple hours as the loud cracks and whistles pierce through our open bedroom window. I'm wishing desperately that I had slowed down a little on the last book I devoured leaving at least a couple chapters for this evenings late night. Alas, I am bookless and bored.
I once read that to be a good blogger you must be self-absorbed. You must believe that you are so important that people lay awake at night wondering when your next post will be. I'm a terrible blogger.
Because I'm having a really difficult time loving myself at all right now. I feel like I've been transported back to junior high and every insecurity I've ever had has come to pay a visit. Hopefully it's a visit. I really don't want them moving in. I find myself self-conscious about the way I walk and laugh and speak. I wonder if people are looking at the new crop of zits sprouting on my chin. I feel fat, slow, clumsy, and anxious.
I want to write about my baby. I want to write about feeling it move for the first time this week and scheduling my ultrasound. Then I feel annoyed at myself and wonder if others are too. I think I talk about it too much.
I think talk too much in general. It's driving me crazy. I'm driving me crazy. I hate being stuck inside this brain and drowning in this whirl of negative thought. Everything irritates me and yet, I feel lonely and long to be with people-- people that love me-- people I could hurt and bring down with my growing pessimism. I don't want them to see me like this. I don't want to see me like this. AH! The confusion. . . Make it go away. . .
Hormones. Got to love them! I woke up this morning feeling like the eighth world wonder. Go figure.