"I'm so tired of feeling like this," I bemoaned, draped over an arm of the chaise lounge in my therapist's office. One hand was dramatically poised against my forehead and one leg hung off the edge. "It's like being a teenager again! I don't know how anyone wants to be a teenager again...A jumbled mess of hormones and fueled by resentment, unexplainable rage, and drowning in woe is me!"

I'd say it's fair to say my therapist didn't appreciate my theatrics judging the RBF expression she wore, a single eyebrow lifted. "I just want to go back to how things used to be. Before kids. When I still knew who I was. I'm so full of self-loathing...And I've never hated myself before! I've never even had image issues!"

I groaned again, this time burying my face into the crook of my arm. "I just want to feel whole again," I whispered hoarsely. "I hate being a mother, a wife. I'm tired of yelling mean things and fighting between all the boys. I just....I don't know how to be happy anymore. I feel like I'm stuck in this cavernous, hopelessly empty space and the harder I try to crawl out of it, the farther I fall. It's all despair! DESPAIR!" I sat up quickly, one hand pointed straight up, before flopping back down in...well...Despair.

"My husband says I need to just chill out, have patience...Don't you think I've tried that"!" Frustration laced the angry words, edged with a hurt. "I don't want to ruin my sweet, precious boys any more. They don't deserve such a crazy mom." My arm fell from my face as it turned earnestly to my therapist, who'd merely been sitting quietly so that I could vent. "Can you help me?"

My therapist, Ann-Marie, was actually one of my dearest friends, and she stared at me a bat. "Grim, go buy a journal, go home, write in your journal, and come back on my lunch break tomorrow. I have a client in 10 minutes." Her tone was brusque, but laced with affection in her own way.

I smiled, sweeping out of the lounge. "That's a good idea. I'll see you tomorrow!" I bent over her desk to kiss her cheek before heading for the door. One last wave before I backed out, shutting the door behind me.

I returned home later, the grocery shopping completed and to be delivered the next day, with both boys in tow. I was snuggling Thor close as it was easier to carry him than to let him stomp in the snow. Loki whizzed past me, hurrying to his room so that he could start 'baking' or something. I don't know, I was distracted, still annoyed with my warring thoughts. Loki started struggling in my arms, saying 'down peas, down peas." Kissing Loki's cheek, I let him loose, smiling as he followed in his brother's wake.

The next hour passed blissfully enough as I made dinner, a creamy Cajun chicken pasta, with little interruptions. I fed the boys, gave them baths and put them to bed after a minor meltdown due to the fact they positively flooded the bathroom with splashing. I poured a three fingers of Hangman Distillery's Sluggers Select into a snifter, taking a deep breath that was intended to calm me down but did little to soothe my frazzled nerves. I felt stressed out but there was no obvious reason for my ire. I enjoyed the first sip of it, fingers delving into a stiff muscle at the back of my neck. I had carefully selected the burgundy wrap dress to entice my husband. It was one of the few pieces I owned that was was especially flattering to my post-babies figure, but I still didn't think I looked right in it.

My husband came home, issuing a silent greeting with a wave and a smile, before grabbing a bottle of Silver Mark from the fridge and popping it open. "I made spicy pasta tonight," I told him, moving to heat up a bowl for him. He merely grunted in response, taking his beer to the living room couch after completely ignoring my attempt for a kiss. I frowned, feeling hurt and invisible. He didn't even notice how nice I dressed for him. Is this how marriages end, when you no longer notice anything about the other"

"How was work?" I continued lightly, trying to push back the pain of rejection. I headed toward the couch, a plate of food, silverware and napkin in my hands. I tried to sashay, the fine fabric billowing around my knees. "Fine," he replied, cocking his neck so that he could see the tv better when I brought his dinner over. It seemed he wished I was as invisible as I felt.

"Oh." It came out in a tiny voice, my dejection clear. Torn between wallowing in self pity and stewing in genuine anger and hurt, I opted to scour the kitchen clean and then every dish in the sink. When he dropped his dirty dish on my gleaming sink I swear I almost imploded. Casting him a scathing look, I fled to our room, knowing he wouldn't go to bed until several hours later, after passing out on the couch in a drunken stupor.

Slamming the door unceremoniously behind me, I sought out the journal I purchased earlier, frantically pawing for the nearest pen on my side table.

I don't know where to go with this, or why I'm doing this...I just know I need to get these feelings out of my head and heart before they consume me.

I feel invisible, like no one really sees me anymore. I'm just there, like an expected thing. Everyone expects something from me: to cook, to clean, to kiss owwies, to tuck them in, to play referee, to pay the bills, to grocery shop, to contribute to the home? But no one wants me for anything. No one wants to make me happy, to hold me, to be there for me, yet here I am, there for everyone else.

I suppose that's not wholly true; the boys do want me, but their sweet and innocent love isn't the only thing I crave. I wish to be remembered, to be ignited.

I'm so tired of feeling alone, abandoned. Forgotten. I wish someone would make me feel alive again.

Diligently, I returned to Ann-Marie's chaise lounge on my lunch break. Flopping down, I grinned at her like a tittering little school girl. "You'll never guess what happened to me this morning," I announced, my face alive with ecstatic emotion.

"You found Ralf dead?" my friend replied a little too hopefully.

I rolled my eyes, swatting at the air in her direction dismissively. "Puh-lease, he's worth more to me alive than dead." Which was true, but the topic was sobering and I felt my smile begin to fade. I had been excited to tell Ann-Marie about my secret admirer, but I suddenly felt that I shouldn't tell her about him (or her). They were my new secret, something for me only, and I was covetous, possessive— I didn't want to share something meant for me and only me.

"Well?" Ann-Marie implored, motioning for me to continue. I was rapidly trying to find something of note to divulge instead, and ended up blurting, "I managed to make breakfast for everyone and get out the door and the boys to school without killing one!" This was, at least, quite the feat. For a moment I thought she would begin an inquisition, but she smiled.

"Good job, Grim! Did you write in the journal last night?" she asked, continuing when I nodded my head yes, "I told you it was therapeutic, didn't I?" The old girl looked positively smug. Rolling my eyes, I chuckled and we continued talking about nonsense as my mood was too cheery to ruin with feelings.

When I returned to my office, I was full of good natured hello's and twinkling smiles for my co-workers. Plopping back into my desk chair with little to no grace, I sighed happily and retrieved my journal to jot down a quick thought.

It's been a really long time since I've felt this good. About myself, about life...I know what someone else thinks about doesn't define me, but it has certainly lifted my spirits. I went to see Ann-Marie at lunch, but I couldn't bring myself to share my secret admirer. I didn't want to share, if one can believe it. I don't know, maybe I am finally losing it. Does that mean you're crazy to be happy' That's a disconcerting thought...

I called in sick the day before, exhausted from lack of sleep and two sick babies. I was still under the weather myself, but couldn't afford to take any more time off. I was lucky that the only reason my boss let me get away with as much as I took off now between being a good worker and understanding my husband's position. Sniffling, tissue held to my nose, I finally stumbled into my office several hours late.

On the plus side, there wasn't a crowd to mosh pit through to get into my office. Downside, I could feel the stares of coming in late. Feeling my cheeks flush, I ducked my head and partially closed the door behind me, affording myself at least a little bit of privacy. Hanging my coat up, I turned to collapse into my desk chair. Pulling out my keyboard, I saw another piece of neatly folded paper tucked under it. Sitting upright, I took a quick look around before pulling it open with gentle fingers and read it.

I didn't see you today, but I thought about you. I know that's forward to say, but work can be boring, even unfulfilling, and my mind often wanders.

I hope your day was good.

Like last time, it was not signed, but the the room did smell ever so faintly of cologne.

Not for the last time I wondered who could possibly be writing to me. I was friendly with my co-workers, but I never really hung out with anyone or made myself particularly well known. It was also safe to say everyone knew I was married with children, considering the way my office was well decorated with photos and childish artwork. Allowing myself a secretive smile regardless, I folded it back up and tucked it into my desk drawer, right beside the first one.