"I am tired of the laundry, I want to be great."

[Weather]

It's a line from a Sharon Olds poem, but it runs through my head every day. Maybe today especially, a Sunday, with the loads of laundry, folding clothes, washing dishes, making dinner, picking up the house, getting the kids ready for the coming week: baths, school work, practicing instruments, "please go outside and take the dog for a walk." And then grading papers, preparing for classes this week, drafting a final exam, answering emails, checking in with TAs and students that need an extra boost at the end of the semester... I'm tired. I feel like my life is all just keeping things together for other people. And, I want a life of service. I do. I mean, I think I do. But... it just repeats over and over and I don't know if it any of it ever even matters.

Now I keep logging in here while I'm working to see if anything can spark something for me. A suicide forum. Really.

I'm tired of the laundry; I want to be great.

I know I'm in such a different place than most people here. And, I feel like an absolute shit for being depressed when, really, my life has all these components that other people here want. I feel like I'm just going to fade away and maybe someday someone will say, wasn't someone doing the laundry before?

And I meant to post this in Recovery and didn't, and I don't know how to move it, so... I'm an idiot too.

 

[Mm80]

Im tired of the laundry, i want to be great. Wow Thats pretty simple and powerful.
Thanks for sharing.
Maybe you are great and you do the laundry aswell.

 

[signifying nothing]

I want a life of service.

Do you fear that service has maybe become servitude?

 

[Weather]

Im tired of the laundry, i want to be great. Wow Thats pretty simple and powerful.
Thanks for sharing.
Maybe you are great and you do the laundry aswell.

Thank you. It's probably just housewife dysphoria... without being a housewife. The next lines of the poem:

The fog pours across the underbrush in silence.
We are sealed in. The only way out is through
fire, and I do not want a single
hair of a single head singed.

 

[Mm80]

Thank you. It's probably just housewife dysphoria... without being a housewife. The next lines of the poem:

The fog pours across the underbrush in silence.
We are sealed in. The only way out is through
fire, and I do not want a single
hair of a single head singed

The person is trapped in a situation that they cannot get out because they care so much about the folk trapped with them. Theyd rather protect them than expose them to the pain of real life experience.
Oh and they hate doing the fcuking laundry too...