I've dreamed of the perfect marriage ever since I was a little girl: a marriage complete with a hardworking husband while I tended to the home and our children, preferably four little rugrats to call my own. I dreamed of a life filled with laughter...
Author's Note: There is a blueberry vs. banana and peanut butter pancake detail in this chapter that WILL be added into one of the earlier chapters. I was going to try and add it before posting, but I have a slice of matcha-misu (tiramisu but with matcha instead of coffee) waiting for me, and I want snacks, so that edit will happen later.
So, as readers, we are going to blissfully pretend we know, and have known this entire time, that Lottie's favorite pancakes are banana and peanut butter and NOT blueberry.
Onward!
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Looking forward is good.
Looking forward is logical.
Looking forward is necessary . . .
. . . it's healthy.
The problem with looking forward, however, is it flies straight out the window after a long night of restless tossing and turning because my brain has suddenly decided to commit mutiny against me--for no good reason, might I add--by reminding me of every terrible, embarrassing, and pathetic thing I've ever done throughout the entirety of my life, including, but not limited to, my actions, or inaction, in my marriage.
What if my letter could have made a difference?
Doesn't matter, brain.
What if I had spoken up more?
Still doesn't matter, brain.
What if I hadn't gotten married in the first place?
Too late for that now, brain.
Do you remember that time milk shot out of your nose and landed on your pants, making it look like you peed yourself in front of the cute boy in the first grade? The entire class laughed at you. You're a loser.
Shut up, brain.
Over and over, the memories and intrusive thoughts cycle through, causing anxiety, doubt, and frustration to seep through my mind and body like nuclear sludge, and I'm stuck spending all night thinking about all the what-ifs.
The what-ifs are bad.
The what-ifs are illogical.
The what-ifs are unnecessary . . .
. . . they're unhealthy.
Does the brain care about any of these facts? No. Because the brain, a place for logic, is without a doubt as illogical and petty as a high-school mean girl who just so happens to think you have a crush on her boyfriend all because she thinks you made a sketchy "side-eye" at him in the hallway for all of a second.
Looking at the clock, I groan at the time because, in exactly twenty-three minutes and fourteen seconds, Pigsley is going to release his thunderous morning squeal, alerting everyone to get their lazy and pathetic butts up and serve him.
