This is not a cry for...

Not a cry for help.  Not a cry for sympathy.  Not a cry for validation.

I usually enjoy picking a topic and writing about it.  At times, my topics are tangential and folks who actually know me know that is pretty true to my nature.  I spend much of my time out in left field.  It is where I prefer to reside.  But this entry is all about me.  Not about work.  Not about food.  Not about some random event.  It is all about me.  More precisely, it is about me being a downright failure.
I have a hunch that I'm not alone in this feeling of being a failure, but right now, indulge me.  But, again I say, it isn't a cry for attention, sympathy, sad looks or even prayers.

This has been a week of abysmal fails.  I failed as a mother, sister, friend, daughter and caretaker.  I failed as a professional speech therapist, diagnostician and clinical supervisor.  I fail each year as a writer, musician and artist.  I fail every second as a dreamer and visionary.  I fail as a Christian and church-goer.  I fail as a housekeeper and gardener.  My knees and I fail as a runner.  I fail miserably at being a wife.

I lose my patience, I cuss, I roll my eyes, I blow, I neglect and I may not be loving enough.  I have not kept up with my friends in the way that I should.  I do not keep up with the journal articles nor do I stay abreast of the latest research on therapeutic modalities.  I feel lost at sea when it comes to the voluminous mess of paperwork that faces me each week.  I fail to model best practice consistently.  By the age of 40, my first novel should be written and I should have already learned to play the violin.  My career is not what I wanted it to be and I don't see my way clear to get it there.  I am cynical and I hate kool-aid.  There are so many days I do not feel I can face my fellow man.  I do not send the cards I want to send nor do I make the phone calls I need to make.  I am inflexible and grumpy.  My house is a mess and the weeds have taken everything out of doors.  I let the frost kill my tomatoes and I neglected to plant my mums in the ground or even keep them watered for the last week.  I love to exercise but exercise hates me.  As I am writing this at almost midnight, The Dude is working in the kitchen at making a soup because I haven't cooked in a month.

This has been an exercise in emotional cleansing.  I have a lot of work to do on myself.  I keep thinking I need to move back to Colorado to get myself straight, but then I realize I would only be trying to run away, hence failing at living honestly with my failures.

Don't cry for me, Argentina, or anyone else.  I am just having one of those moments.  You know, the moment when you stop blaming everyone else for your problems and you admit that you are the epic fail you never meant to become.  I'm not the only person who realizes this... right? Don't answer that.  I don't want to hear from a soul.

(The soup smells pretty good.)