So you can see why I'm going crazy.

J: What's the matter?
D: I'm sick of doing housework.
J: What have you had to do today besides throw one load of laundry in?
D: I cleaned up the dishes when I got home; after I slept I cleaned the kitchen, then I made my own dinner and cleaned up after that, and then did the laundry.
J: What did you have to clean up this morning?
D: I washed dishes and emptied the dishwasher and straightened up the kitchen.
J: The kitchen was fine when you came home.
D: Well, then, why did I ask you if the dishes in the dishwasher were clean? Why was I unloading it if there weren't dirty dishes to put in it?
J: Then you yelled at me for running the dishwasher.
D: Yes, because you only had four dishes in it.
J: They were dirty and I wanted to clean up after myself.
D: There are other ways to wash dishes, you know, like in the sink, or you could leave them in the dishwasher until it's full.
J: So what else did you do?
D: I cleaned up the kitchen again after my nap and then again just now.
J: What was there to clean? We'd all been asleep.
D: I don't remember exactly what I cleaned but I know I just did dishes.
[We go into the kitchen to look. I can't point out exactly which dishes I washed because I don't remember specifically. Guess I wasn't paying that much attention to each individual dish I washed.]
J: I just don't think you've been too put-upon today.
D: I'm not just talking about today--I'm talking about all the rest of the time. You don't even notice what I do around here.
J: You don't notice what I do either.
D: What do you do? You don't do jack shit around here.
J: I straightened up the kitchen this morning and I do laundry...just forget it.
D: I feel like I'm just a slave around here. Every time I'm awake I'm doing housework. Even when I had my stent in last week, I was hauling laundry downstairs, washing it, bringing it up, folding it and putting it away, even though I had asked you to do it, which you didn't.
J: I carried all that laundry downstairs when you asked me to.
D: Well, I remember hauling dirty laundry downstairs because it was fucking painful. [Pause.] You seem to think that if Bubba is awake you can't do anything.
J: So I'm not supposed to have any free time?
D: You do have free time--you go sit at the computer for hours, play PlayStation, read your book...what free time do I get?
J: I don't get to just take off for a day every week like you do [referring to Girls' Night].
D: You get to do what you want to do...movie night with the guys, softball, guys' night, wallyball...
J: Yeah for THREE HOURS at a time, usually after Bubba's in bed. I don't get to just leave for a whole night.
D: So you'd be happier if my Girls' Nights were only three hours? You begrudge me the one fucking thing I enjoy in my life, the ONE NIGHT I get to do something for myself.
J: No, I'm just saying I don't get to just take off for a whole night.
D: Do you want to? Are you jealous or what?

[Somewhere around this point, J. mentioned that I slept all day that day, and that the previous Thursday, "you got to lay around and sleep all day." My response was: "Yeah--the day after I'd had general anesthesia."]

[A pause.]

D: Maybe we should just break up. I'm so sick of this fight.
J: If that's what you want to do, Depressionista, then go for it. I think you'll find that I'm not that bad of a guy.

[Another pause.]

D (crying): I don't know what I want. I'm just really unhappy.
J: I don't understand how things seem to be going fine and then boom, one night you just want to get divorced.
D: Things aren't "fine," J. Don't you see that?
J: Then divorce me. Find someone who can give you what you want or realize you made a mistake or whatever.
D: You're right. I'm probably just blaming you for all my problems.

At this point I go out to the porch to cry and smoke, spiraling down into the abyss of general depression. Thinking about how I am ugly and how J. and I are completely without intimacy with each other and how it's my fauult because I'm fat and uglyl and afraid to have sex because of my problems since my surgery in July. How I'm a shitty mother--this thought was sparked by earlier in the evening, when I was trying to wrestle Bubba to bed and he was really resisting it, and I was yelling at him and trying to physically get him back in his bed, and my fingernail accidentally nicked the side of his ear and he screamed and ran from me like he was scared.

I moved into the bedroom and cried for a long while, then realized that Bubba was crying and J., who was in the living room playing PlayStation, wasn't doing anything about it, so I arose from my meltdown and opened my door saying "Jesus Christ!" thinking that I don't even get to fucking fall apart without having to attend to Bubba. J. then jumps up and beats me to Bubba's door and picks him up and rocks him. I went back into my bedroom and continued the spiral, sobbing into my pillow, thinking about how I could kill myself and how appealing that thought was. Ruling out a gun because of the mess. I went out to the kitchen to look at my pills to see which ones would most likely work to do the job, but still kind of realizing that I didn't really have the guts to go through with it, and then Bubba started crying again. He wouldn't stop crying, and earlier he'd had a fever, so to I had to stop and get him Tylenol, which he screamed about taking. J. got him to sleep and came out and then Bubba woke up crying again. I said, "I wish I'd never had a kid. I hate it." Then J. went to Bubba and I went back to bed, crying, wishing Hope was here because I just knew she would have loved me whereas Bubba only wants J. Bubba kept crying, so I called to J. to bring him into my bed thinking that maybe Bubba would want to sleep in bed with me, and when he tried Bubba screamed bloody murder to J. had to take him out. I fell asleep crying.

The end.