I can’t do this anymore

Somewhere in the last 40 years I lost the point. I want to give up every day on this thing called life. As Bilbo Baggins said so perfectly in The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring, “I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.” I am angry that I am not allowed to have a bad day, or even a meh day. Somehow I am responsible for the mood of the rest of my family. It ends up being my fault if everyone else has a bad day. I am tired. 

I’ve been told numerous times to go on medication. And equally as many times to not go on medication, just find ways to be happier. I am supposed to overlook when others do things halfway, but I am on the receiving end of endless grief if I don’t do things perfectly. I am encouraged to do the things that make me happy. I am put through guilt trip after guilt trip for not spending more quality time doing what my family wants to do. 

I am responsible for planning and prepping every meal, including breakfasts, snacks, and lunches along with dinners, but feel the judgement when I don’t “include” my partner in the planning process for dinners. If I work, I feel the lack of all that I am not able to accomplish at home. If I’m home I feel the guilt of not earning money for bills. I need to wake up by 4am to put together lunches for my youngest and myself and make breakfast for 3 of us. And I need to stay awake late enough to spend adult time with my partner. 

So what am I doing? I am breaking. Every day. Repetitive breaks in the same places that never have time to heal. But I am supposed to be happy. I am supposed to be energetic and involved and extroverted. I am in fact an introvert. I prefer reading and writing. I prefer sitting alone outside listening to the animals and the wind in the trees, or the rain drops as they strike various surfaces. Being alone is considered selfish. 

So what am I doing. Living anyway, daily.