(no subject)

I keep telling myself once I quit my job, I'm never allowed to complain about anything ever again. As you can imagine, having dictated this to myself is a little bit anxiety inducing, because I honestly expect that leisure time is not something I will take to with any sort of grace. I think it will be good for me in the long run, once I convince myself that Light will still love me and the world won't end if I take money out of my savings account, just this once. But I don't think it'll be immediately good for me, and maybe that's part of the problem, since I am besieged both by the expectation of freaking out and the preemptive self-loathing of having done so.

Ah, self-care.

I don't know what I'll do with my time seems the pivot point of all the freaking out. Cleaning can only take up so much of a day, as can cooking, particularly in this season. I'm not in school, and not intending to be unless I develop some seriously focused desires. I'm not a parent, and I'm definitely not intending to become one, no matter what desires develop. I'm not a social creature or a writer to fill my days that way. And maybe this is something unforceable, unpredictable, and I'll find out when I'm on the other side of it, in three scant days when Light gets up to leave for work and I don't go anywhere.

(no subject)

I keep telling myself once I quit my job, I'm never allowed to complain about anything ever again. As you can imagine, having dictated this to myself is a little bit anxiety inducing, because I honestly expect that leisure time is not something I will take to with any sort of grace. I think it will be good for me in the long run, once I convince myself that Light will still love me and the world won't end if I take money out of my savings account, just this once. But I don't think it'll be immediately good for me, and maybe that's part of the problem, since I am besieged both by the expectation of freaking out and the preemptive self-loathing of having done so.

Ah, self-care.

I don't know what I'll do with my time seems the pivot point of all the freaking out. Cleaning can only take up so much of a day, as can cooking, particularly in this season. I'm not in school, and not intending to be unless I develop some seriously focused desires. I'm not a parent, and I'm definitely not intending to become one, no matter what desires develop. I'm not a social creature or a writer to fill my days that way. And maybe this is something unforceable, unpredictable, and I'll find out when I'm on the other side of it, in three scant days when Light gets up to leave for work and I don't go anywhere.