I have to somehow accept the fact that my life didn’t pan out the way that I expected it to.
I’ll never be able to go back to how I was before my health conditions took over and made me so fragile, mentally and physically.
I’ll never be able to go back in time and listen to my instincts before I married the asshat.
I’ll never be able to tackle problems and situations with a mostly calm, collected mind without becoming overwhelmed, like I used to do.
I’ll never be able to clean my entire house in one day. (Become one with the clutter and dust!)
I’ll never be able to fully trust another human ever again. (Besides my extremely ill mother.)
I’ll never wake up again and not feel like a dog turd. (Unless I’m hooked up to a morphine drip.)