The Woman Hated the End of the Novel

Every day at least one kind person stops by this blog to view what's going on in my life or mind.
Thank you, kind stranger.
I feel as if I am walking through life with you.
We will laugh; we will cry - We will have to have a chat sometime.

I feel subdued tonight.
Nothing I'm reading has turned out right.
I mean, sometimes I want a certain thing to happen by the end of a novel, and then when it doesn't I feel just as disappointed as if it were my own life that had floundered.

Now I've decided that I'm not subdued; I'm angry.

In the Victorian Age, women were considered the weaker sex and any sign of distress, temper, or having an opinion could be attributed to a nervous disorder or mental illness.
Sometimes I don't see where things have changed all that much.
I was never hospitalized for mental illness, but certainly I have suffered injustice at the hands of judgemental people who had no desire to get to the bottom of what was really happening as opposed to what they perceived as happening based on the careless words of others.

Argh.

I should delete this.

Instead I will work on writing a more measured response to the day... tomorrow.
After I've had some sleep.

Bless all the little children tonight.
Champion the causes of idealists and dreamers.