Why is it no matter where I have been, no matter what it was that needed to be done, whenever I come home I want to fall to the floor crying or screaming?
There is something wrong with my apartment. Honestly, isn't your home suppose to be a place to relax and feel good?
The second I enter the door to the building here I feel as if I'm walking through mud or jelly or something. Like an invisible gremlin has climbed on my shoulders and is weighing me down.
I have been spending more time at my mother's the last few weeks just simply because I do not want to feel like this. I'm good everywhere else, but my own apartment.
There has to be a name for that.