By Thursday evening, I feel like I have nothing more to give. By Friday afternoon, I just want to be left alone. Even Westley just standing (never sitting) and watching TV, or the kitty following me from room to room is too much noise and movement.
Every weekday I make a list of Things to Do, hoping that the act of list-making will keep me organized and out of my head a little, and that checking items off will give me a sense of accomplishment. The list is always very reasonable. Eight or ten little tasks to keep our lives running smoothly, many of which I have to do anyway. Unload the dishwasher. Dinner. Wash and fold laundry. Every day, at least a few check boxes sit empty.
When I worked in an office, I made a daily To Do list and when something didn't get done, I moved it to the top of the next day's list. For some reason, this doesn't work at home. Maybe it's because a straightened bookshelf never stays straightened, and there's always another meal to prepare.
The week never really seems to end. Instead, the weekend just begins, bringing its own special Things to Do. But the surroundings—and the feelings—are the same.
There are times when I manage my life pretty well. Sometimes, I feel all right about this home/work schedule (or lack thereof). I've even been known to find it enjoyable, if not exactly "fun." But often—more often than not—I wonder if this job is so exhausting (and overwhelming and mind-numbing) because I'm just not a very good match for it.