Do I want to tell you about it? Yes and no. I'm depressed as hell and I don't feel like doing anything, even blogging.
This happens every time I visit my family. But this time, it started before I even left. I couldn't even enjoy the visit, knowing I would have to come return.
Also, I have been reevaluating my life goals and trying to convince myself that it's okay to persue my dream of writing a novel. The time that it would take away from my family to do so makes it feel like a selfish endeavor, and yet, I think...I have given up everything for them, including my identity. Why should I feel so guilty about taking some of me back?
Well anyway...I'm back. Thanks for not pissing on the rug.