In which I hate everything and even chocolate doesn't mitigate the bitter

Warning: this is a hugely long ranty hatey hate post. If you're having a great Monday or a short attention span, maybe skip this one.

I hate this year. I just hate it.

So far, it's been the hardest year of my life.

Not one fucking thing has been easy so far. Rather, every single thing has been as difficult as possible.

I said this to Nick the other day, and he agreed it's been difficult, but not the hardest.

And I was all thinking, oh fuck you Mr. Brightside.

But in actuality replied, "Yeah, well, when your dad dies, I'll check in on how you rate it."

My dad's death, while I don't think about it every minute, tints just about everything. I don't know if it would be different if it hadn't been suicide. I've thought about it, and I really don't know.

What I do know is that that doesn't help matters.

The beginning of the year wasn't easy, in that I was exhausted and dealing with all the newness of pregnancy.

And then the selling of Nick's place was fraught with back and forth bullshit, although in the end worked out OK.

And then my dad's suicide attempt in April was incredibly terrible. Although of course not as devastating as when he succeeded the following month.

That pretty much shot my world to hell, and I can't say I've gotten all that far in recovering.

I just forced myself to focus on other stuff. Which was made easier by the move to a new place and the impending baby.

And our new place, while amazing and oldoldold with oldoldold details and charm, turns out to have been repaired at every turn with bubble gum and band-aids. We knew about a lot of it. Just maybe not half of everything.

Thus, while delightful in many ways, this house is so needy. And I currently have no abilities or energy.

Currently, in fact, I am so needy. Which I also hate.

Which brings me to my nearly final of course this is so fucking hard because how could one goddamn fucking thing be easy this year?

My OB told me this morning that his mother-in-law passed away. The funeral is Friday.

Not to make this about me, but of course this is all about me. Friday is my induction date.

And since the little rat bastard shows no signs of arriving soon - and in fact seems to be all delightedly happy in there. . .I am scheduled to be massively, increasingly goddamn pregnant all the way to Friday.

Just to have some OB who is new to the practice. I'm on the wait list for Wednesday. Which would be another OB I've never met. But at least has been there a long time.

Maybe this doesn't even fucking matter. I don't know.

I told him I would be happy to be induced that very minute. Could they do it then and there? But they are booked all week.

When he said, "You're only a couple days past due, and Friday is not that far away!" I seriously wanted to reach across the desk and poke him in the eye. Veryvery hard.

Instead I said, sure, put me on the Wednesday wait list. I'll call tomorrow to see.

I managed to get out of the building before bursting into tears. I called Nick and sobbed and sobbed. If you saw a hugely pregnant woman wailing into a cell phone on 20th street this morning, that would've been me.

And then I called Betty, and said that I'm pretty sure this fucking kid is going to weigh 20 lbs by Friday.

As of today's measurements, he's 8 lbs 13 oz - give or take a pound and a half, they said.

I am trying not to resent him, because it's not his fault. But I am so big and tired and stretched and burny and I just hate all of it.

And because of how the rest of everything has gone this entire ass-sucking year, I currently have every expectation that I'll be in labor for like 30 fucking hours and wind up with a C-section.

I hate everything.