What a difference a day makes.
I thought a full day-off would help, but of course, it only serves to allow me just enough time to see how horrible my day-to-day existence (it would be wholly inaccurate to call this 'a life') has become. Given the chance to see the number of hours I'm working and the dramatically non-corresponding financial reward, I'm tempted right back into despondency. I cannot live like this. It's not just the work itself, which is denying me any time to be creative unless I take the risk of making myself ill by regularly getting only as much sleep as a new parent, but it is the lack of appreciation and consideration for all that I am managing to do, which threatens to overwhelm me. I may as well have embarked on motherhood. The problem of unpaid, hard-work that goes unappreciated is absolutely identical.
There must be a way out of this? Surely my efforts to learn Czech and continue to practise French and continue to play music in the last spare minutes I have left, must count for something? Come on someone, hire me for work I can actually excel at. Or at least make a headstone saying 'she really did try' and lay a comfy blanket and pillow in the grave for me to lie on and bring me the barbiturates to see me on my way out of here, so that I don't have to go out and source them myself. Because, frankly, I don't have the time. Or the money. Dammit.
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