I’m so tired of being depressed, of not loving my life. So many people I know love their lives – my husband included. It doesn’t bother him that we’re so broke that we’re counting on our tax refund to keep us from homelessness, that I’m pregnant with no health insurance, that his car is broken, he’s still optimistic and happy. He still loves me, loves his life, is excited about the future and the baby. Where can I get me some of that? Why am I, instead of happy and optimistic, a crazed, anxiety-ridden, killjoy who barely sleeps at night and has a constant refrain of “oh shit” singing in my head? All I can do is worry and wish things were different or that I was somebody else. Is it because of my childhood? Because my poverty stricken, formative years were spent wondering if my mom and I would eat that week? Or can the blame, once again, be placed on my brain’s fundamentally unbalanced chemistry? Either way I gotta snap out of it before this kid is born.