I just want a chance. A chance to prove myself. That I am capable. Is that so much to ask?

I'm breaking down. Sometimes I think it'll just be easier to give up. Give up everything. There'd be nothing left to fight about. No fight in me. 

I'd be an empty shell. 

A husk. 

I'll just cave in. It's what I always do. 

That would be easier, right?

Tight squeeze.

As I become girthier and my mobility, flexibility, and stamina diminish, I'm really starting to miss being able to do enjoyable things that I was capable of doing a few months ago. 

Like fixing stuff. I love fixing stuff, solving problems, taking things apart, improving functionality, playing with tools, crawling in tight uncomfortable spaces to tighten screws and replace old rusted bolts. 

Imagine trying to squeeze between the twisting sinews of pipe under a small kitchen sink -- 

--contorting yourself inches from drippy damp fixtures, pressing your feet against the opposite wall to get some leverage, trying to find the angle of optimum accessibility to tighten the slowly dripping diverter valve.... 

Such heaven exists under my kitchen sink, waiting for some attention, but alas, it will have to be fixed by someone else. Woe is me. 

Oh joy.

Things that make me inexplicably emotional:

Male figure skating. 

Really.....

Really?!

Yeah. Reduced me to a puddle of blubbering incoherent sobs of rapture. 

Thank you pregnancy hormones.