Work?

“I just work here”.

That was the most truthful thing I think I’ve managed to say out aloud in a long time. And it’s true.

Everything I do is in service of others. I run a house, I do my job. I’m on beck and call for my Year 12s, for my daughter for my partner. I work.

Everything is work.

And there is very little respite and thanks

Not that I’m hunting or hinting at it.

But when K sends daily pictures of her perfect body, I’m daily reminded that I’m not that.

None of my work makes me feel sexually desirable, attractive, turned on or willing to even bother.

I am the antithesis of desire. I am work.

And when I do try…. it doesn’t work. I went to sleep last night alone – he didn’t reach for me. I woke up, he didn’t reach for me. If that becomes work too…

I’m out of spoons.