This House is Not a Home

There are days the panic starts to take over. 

Days that you wonder what you’re going to do, how you’re going to do it, and if it’s what you’re supposed to be doing.  It’s so easy to ignore the big questions and just keep pushing forward, because momentum is good.  It makes you feel like something is getting accomplished. 

But at what point do the cold cups of coffee, and trips to the potty, and term papers start to become blurry and inane?  At what point do you simply avoid reaching out for comfort or solace?  Because when you really, really needed it from the one you’re working so hard to emotionally support, and it’s not returned.  It’s not rational, not logical, not fair.   And when you ask, you’re scoffed at. 

Scoffed at.

You know it won’t last.  You know it’s just a bad day, and bad days are bound to happen.  They will creep in, unexpected, like a frost that heating off of your car makes you late for work.  They will rear their tiny, ugly heads, like an English folk creature that won’t leave your kitchen until you provide the object it’s been looking for, or a cockroach that has taken up residence under your refrigerator.

That bad day…that gnawing, aching pain that rests in your shoulders, your stomach.  That bad day that makes you feel like you could crawl out of your skin.  That bad day that caused a fight, and then the phone line stopped working.  Stupid third world cell phones.  Stupid Fights.  Stupid bad days.  Stupid that I didn’t say I love you before the phone died.  Sorry I brought up anything to cause a fight.  Sorry that unless you’re here, a house is not a home.   

I’m sorry for my bad day.


Sandra is a Mom, and Army Wife, a Friend, and a Coffee Enthusiast.  

Shenanigans can be found at and  


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