Carrie on

I’m negative. It’s true. You probably don’t know that, unless you’ve lived with me. Who I am outside my house isn’t fake, it is just exhausting. Draining. So when I’m home, when I’m with the people who I live for, who I love more than life, I’m terrible, cantankerous. It’s true. It’s embarrassing. I’m intolerable, and I know it, and although I know it and although I bite my tongue and tell myself that it is wrong, I remain cranky. I snap, and were I a lower animal, I probably would bite.   I lash out with words and tone in nastiness so detestable, I can’t stand myself.   My children are more precious than any analogy I could insert here, and yet, when my temper has bubbled to full height (and it does) I explode in loud torrential spurts of vengeful language. I say things that under circumstances less tense would curl my fingers into protective fists. Things for which I would scold other tongues. I hear myself and can’t at times believe that such things could be said. I hate i