Is it just me, or do we, as humans, have this fundamental aversion to confrontation, even when it’s utterly trivial? Like, I just cleaned up the kitchen again – for the third fucking time this week – and my roommate, bless his oblivious heart, is probably sound asleep, completely unaware of the dried oatmeal on the counter or the crusted-over coffee grounds in the sink. And instead of saying anything, which would be the logical, adult thing to do, I just… did it. Again. I found myself scrubbing away, almost robotically, the resentment building like a slow-simmering stew in my gut, but my mouth remained resolutely shut. I keep replaying hypothetical conversations in my head, trying to find the perfect non-accusatory phrasing, the lighthearted suggestion, the "hey, just a thought…" but every single one of them feels like it could erupt into some kind of domestic incident, and then what? We’d have to actually *discuss* it. And the thought of that… it’s almost paralyzing. I spend my days talking to a toddler and the occasional grocery store clerk, so maybe my social skills are atrophying, but this feels deeper than just shyness. It’s like a refusal to engage with even the slightest ripple in the domestic calm. It’s not just the roommate, honestly. It’s everything. I’ve become this… passive observer in my own life, I think. This morning, I spent an hour trying to assemble a new toy for my kid, completely misreading the instructions, and instead of admitting I needed help, I just stared at the schematic diagram until my eyes crossed. It’s this weird sense of futility, like, what’s the point in even trying to articulate something when it’ll probably be misunderstood anyway? Or worse, dismissed. Am I just projecting my own inner chaos onto a pile of dirty dishes? Is this a symptom of something bigger? Sometimes I wonder if this entire chapter of my life – the stay-at-home parent thing, the relative isolation – has just chipped away at my ability to advocate for myself, for anything really. Like, I’m supposed to be content, fulfilled by the small things, right? And I *am*, mostly. I love my kid more than anything. But then I’m scrubbing someone else’s dried pasta off the stovetop at 2 AM, and this almost primal scream is bubbling up inside me, not because of the pasta, but because I can’t seem to find the goddamn words to just… exist loudly. To just be like, "Hey, clean your shit up." Is this what losing your identity feels like? This quiet, insidious erosion of your voice? Or am I just a giant fucking coward? Anyone else feel like this? Like you’re just… dissolving?