You know what? Life is hard.

Sometimes you work and you work and then both you and your husband work so you can stay afloat and pay all your bills and be responsible and then what? You have $14 left in your bank account and you wonder why you work so damn hard if you’re still going to be broke as shit anyway. Honestly, I’d rather be broke and stay home with E than be broke and be stressed at work and upset that I’m not with my son and that he is going to have somuchfuckingfun at the fair with his grandma and not with me.

I hate money. I mean, I love money, but I HATE money. I hate that it’s money that makes the world go ’round. I hate that everything I do, I’m thinking about money – how much it costs (too much), how much I can save (not enough), how much we have left (next to nothing).

It makes me want to throw some clothes in a suitcase, throw everything else in some cheap storage units close to where we live and throw away all my responsibilities and go. Just go.

Like here. I could go here.

(But that would take money.)

Each morning before E wakes up and after my husband leaves for work, I cry. Each morning as I drive to drop E off at his aunt’s or grandma’s, I cry. Each afternoon as I drive to pick him up, I cry. And in between? I hold back the tears, because I’m at work and I can’t just sit around crying.

Our system is flawed. Society is flawed. Being a parent is heart-breaking enough on its own. When you throw in the additional heartbreak of having to leave your child each and every day, against your will, in the care of someone else (regardless of how loved and cared for they are by this other person)… I just. I can’t. I do not for one moment believe this is the way we are meant to live. But I don’t, for the life of me, know how to fix it.

Short of winning the lottery, of course. Because I know they say money can’t buy happiness, but money sure as hell can make it easier to find happiness.

Writing my heart out