I just feel so miserable. There are spots of joy in my life, but those few stars get lost in the gaping black hole of space that surrounds me.

What do I even live for?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not suicidal. I could never do that. I don’t want to die. I just no longer want to live my life. I don’t take any pleasure in it.

My kids are teens, and once they’re out of the house, then what?

Already, my life consists of work home work home work home on endless repeat with no variation. I work nights in an office, alone. I go home to an empty house and a sink full of dishes, trash everywhere. And that’s it. That’s my life. Is it any wonder I’m miserable?

And no one cares.

I don’t even get good morning texts from my husband. I only hear from him when he needs groceries or something. Sure, sex is great, (really, really great) but there needs to be more to a relationship.

What else do I live for?

Music? I love music like nothing else. I need it more than oxygen. But…

Art? I guess. If I could DO anything with it. I’m just as likely to become a rock and roll god as I am to become a successful artist. Which is to say… I’m not.

If I had even one friend, I would be a lot better off. I would give just about anything to be invited on a girl’s night out. To have someone call just because they wanted to talk with me.

If my husband wasn’t a freaking toddler, I might look forward to life after kids. But no, I get to spend the rest of my life reminding him not to leave his nasty food trash and dirty dishes everywhere. Oh, yes, and killing the inevitable bugs that brings.

I just, I hate my life. And the only thing I have to look forward to is more of the same. And I’m so tired of it all.