“Sometimes it seems like love is just a fancy word for compromise. You’ve gotta read between the years. You gotta write between the lines.” (Ani Difranco)

It’s raining pretty hard out there this morning. The clouds started moving in yesterday afternoon and by the time the sun went down, the rain had started. Hard and fast and noisy. I’m guessing that it rained all night, by the looks of the sodden ground this morning and the slick, clean looking car in the driveway. It’s still raining and is supposed to carry on well into the night and tomorrow.

Reminds me of the day that Emma was born, seven years ago tomorrow. We’d had some warm, summer like weather during my last few weeks of pregnancy…warm enough that my ankles swelled like birthday balloons…the kind that come in funny shapes…warm enough that sleep was damn near impossible and the feeling of having morphed into a beached whale was overwhelming. But the day that she was born was a lot like today…grey and cold and wet. And I remember, very clearly, standing by the window of my hospital room with Emma tucked snugly in the crook of my arm and thinking of all of the cute little outfits people had given to Emma and wondering if she’d ever be able to wear any of them, the weather was that shitty.

This morning, though, the weather isn’t much of a damper. In fact, it suits. It feels right that the sky is grey and the clouds are heavy with water.

I feel grey.

And heavy.

Rock came home around four o’clock in the morning. I remember him coming in and getting into bed and I remember nudging him a little while later because Kate, who was still pretty sick, was calling out his name. I don’t know if he actually got up or not. I do know that Kate ended up in my bed at some point. So, I’m guessing he didn’t.

Rock is gone again. Gone to do some estimate for a friend of his.

And the day is full of things that need to get done.

Decorations for Emma’s birthday tomorrow. I have to decorate tonight. I like it when they wake up, surprised at the sight of the dining room. The balloons. The streamers. The banners and fancy cups and plates and napkins and table cloth.

A gift for Kate’s friend, whose birthday is also tomorrow and whose party Kate will be attending in the afternoon. It works out well, really, because that gives me a solid two hours alone with my Emma on her birthday. I’m taking her shopping. The birthday money that’s already arrived in cards in the mail to the tune of * sixty dollars * is burning a hole in her little pocket. It should be fun.

Groceries. Sometimes I feel like I live in the grocery store. And no matter how much I buy, it’s never enough! We never make it a full week.

I am in desperate need of a new bra. My most coveted pink bra has started itching my skin, which no doubt means that the underwire is rusting and it’s days are numbered, if not entirely over. I fucking hate bra shopping. With a passion. I’m not what you’d call petite in the department so not only are the bras available in my size pretty limited, they’re also more expensive and lots of times, less cute. And I have to try on dozens of them before I can find just one that will fit properly. It’s time consuming, frustrating and no fun at all. And as if all of that wasn’t enough, my boobs are now bigger than they used to be. And I’m terrified of not fitting into a single bra in the whole store and having to get a fucking speciality bra in a bigger size with a much bigger price tag.

I also need new panties. But that’s kinda fun.

But for now, I just have to sit and wait for the car to pull back into the driveway.

So that I can go.

Go and distract myself.

Mask the feelings of disappointment and discouragement. Fight the tears that sprung out this morning while sitting and talking with Rock, trying once more to be an adult. Resist the urge to spend the day curled up into a ball on the couch with MSCL playing on the DVD player and a bowl of sugary Corn Pops next to my leg for hand to mouth snacking. That’s exactly what I feel like doing.

I’m retreating.

When I feel this way, I want nothing more than to be left completely the fuck alone. I don’t reach out. And I don’t want anyone to reach out to me. I want to curl up tight, become invisible and go within. It is only when I go within that I’m ever allotted any time for reaction or selfish emotion.

And since nobody will ever allow me to go within…well…I never get much reaction time.

I’m tired of the compromise. I’m tired of always being the one to give up what I want so that everyone else is comfortable and happy and taken care of. I’m not an all or nothing girl, never have been, but on days like today, I kinda wonder if that is a naturally occurring character trait or if that particular aspect of my personality was drilled into me from the time I was first able to give something up.

I don’t want to answer that question.

I’m tired of the compromise. Because here in Janet Land, compromise means Janet sacrificing and everyone else winning. I’m tired of being made to feel shitty because I have to give something up each and every time. Because once they figure out that I want something, they have to snatch it away, or at the very least, have to ruin it.

I’m tired of the compromise. I’m sick of never being allowed to have emotions. Of never being able to outwardly display emotion. I’m sick of having to “get over it” in record breaking time, while I consistently allow the others to feel their emotions before letting them go.

I want to disappear. I want to spare anyone from “having to deal with me when I’m like this”. I want that hole in the ground, warm and damp and close, to bury myself in until they all forget about me and I can crawl out and carry on. The key is waiting until the shit blows over.

Only this time…

I dared to want.

And that is unforgivable.

And the fucked up part is that for the first time in my life, I refuse to compromise.