I am angry.
I’m not seething and throwing chairs angry, but if it were more socially acceptable I might just give it a whirl. Presently I’m doing what every well-mannered angry woman does. I’m bottling. I’m also randomly crying and wishing that the world would just coccoon around me until the worst of it has passed. The most irksome thing of all is that I’m not sure that I have any right to feel how I feel, even though that has no bearing on how I actually feel. I’m cross. I’m hurt. I’m bloody well gosh darn it annoyed.
Other people get to be selfish.
Other people get to do what they think is right.
Why can’t I be selfish once in a while? Why is it always my job to play peacemaker, to make sure everything runs smoothly and that everyone feels secure in their own little space? I’m tired. I’m emotionally exhausted. I have no space in my mind to keep more than one person afloat at a time, and once in a while I like that person to be me. Not always, not forever, just every so often it has to be my turn.
People seem to have come to expect me to be something that I’m not. I’m not really sure what that something is but they seem very determined that I should continue being it. I am not allowed to be anything other than what I’ve always been. One little move, one step outside of the box, one piddly-arse fuck-up with the best of intentions. Nup. No go. Cannot deal.
You know what? I think I deserve better than that.