Losing Count

I've lost count. I feel like all I do is count...the minutes of the day, the days in the week, the weeks left until another year has passed and I am closer to what I want. It's nice to lose count and it not matter. I'd say 30 at least, 30 hopes and dreams I've sent my details to and will probably end in nothing. At least I'm trying. Trying so hard.
   I'm genuinely uncomfortable right now. Depressed is overly dramatic, upset suggests a fleeting feeling, so uncomfortable is the description I'm giving this situation, uncomfortable and sad. Other than keep looking and trying I can do nothing, which angers me. I want out of this situation. It's unlikely I will ever be eaten alive by anyone, this is the closest I imagine to what that feels like. I am metaphorically being eaten alive, one skin cell at a time, one drop of blood and mucus a day, one chip of bone and gristle with every damn passing week.
   On reflection...uncomfortable isn't a strong enough word...sad and painful. I'd say this is painful. Being eaten alive is painful. I could cry. Every morning I am not being who I want to be I feel that gut wrenching choke as if I need to cry, the way only women ever seem to understand. But I don't. I get on with it. That's another thing we women seem to do, get on and mend. Grit our teeth.
Because so often we don't do what we want to do. We do what we have to do and pretend it's what we want. I can't pretend forever, I can't pretend for a year. I give it until the sky darkens again, the next time the leaves have turned...that's my deadline. Longer than that I'll walk away anyway, despite the weather outside.
Grace?
I Promise.