I’m worn out.
There, I said it.
I want to play with my kids more, but I don’t have the time.
I work from home, and the deadlines pile up, deadlines for little if any money. And at every turn there’s another employer beckoning for my attention, threatening to pull the plug on the relationship, wondering, ‘why can’t you just do this for me NOW? You’re sitting at home while I’m at the office, working my ass off. Why don’t you write, or edit, or research, or blog for me somewhere between your morning bath, your soap operas and bon bons and your third cup of coffee taken leisurely on the porch?’
As if my time is meaningless. As if the tasks I perform are worth less than the nothingness I get paid. As if I’m on vacation.