Misery loves company?

By all accounts, I should be a happy man. I earn above the median income, I'm healthy (though I would probably benefit from some exercise, a few minutes every day), I have a better than average looking wife, and a really wonderful 9 month old infant son. I live in my own home (well, it belongs to the bank really for another 30 years, but my name is on the title anyways) and drive a nice car.

Don't let it fool you though. Every day, when I come home from work, I don't know if I'll meet someone completely dissatisfied about every aspect of her life, or someone hell-bent on making my life miserable by blaming me for marrying her. If you ask my wife, she won't tell you that I'm the most insensitive, uncaring, selfish son-of-a-bitch in the world -- that would be wrong. See, she doesn't want anyone else to know about our reality, so those words of compassion are for me and me only.

I'll go over a lot of detail using the shroud of anonymity that the net thankfully gives me. I've often thought about writing these in a journal so that I can analyze incidents that happen, at a later time and with a clear mind. If you're reading this, maybe you will help me make sense, or share my misery with your stories...