All is not lost

I’ve fallen off the wagon, stopped writing every day. And certainly stopped making sure my posts had meaning. Now I feel as though I’m doing this to see if I can, not because I want to. Maybe that’s enough? 

In these writing classes I take, you’re asked to do all of these exercises like writing up fake scenes for stories handed down. I have zero interest writing about someone else’s stories, even as a learning experience. I actually hate it. Actual hate. And I don’t hate much in this world.

This blog is like a journal, that’s why it works. And MY stories that I write about are based on my life experiences… I just need to fictionalize a bit more and they might actually be interesting to a broader audience.

April showers

Feeling lazy, and kind of resentful that I agreed to do something every day and failed at it. I’m sure it’s some big lesson about how if I really wanted to be a writer, I’d just write. Nothing could keep me away from it – not family or health or work… because I’d have drive and passion and blah de blah.

It’s grey, and rained last night like there was no tomorrow. Sideways, even. Now recovering from some food poisoning I got from leftover Indian food. So. Tired. Grateful for a body that identifies a foreign object and says GET OUT, just wish it wasn’t so violent.

Had the craziest dream about Ryan Reynolds last night. We were tight but married to other people and had to show restraint. Proud of myself in my dreams…

I missed a day, so what?

It’s very, very easy to beat myself up for not doing something I said I would do. I agreed to write in my blog every day for 30 days and yet yesterday went by and I didn’t realize it until 11pm when I was too tired. I don’t know what it’s like for people who have really horrible addictions, but I do know what it’s like to hold the bar too high for oneself. It’s not perfection I’m after, I believe that perfect is the enemy of the good. And I’ve become much more relaxed as an adult than I was as a child. And still, it’s disappointing.

But the wonderful news is that I woke up today, I have the chance to do something great. Doesn’t mean it will be this blog entry, or showing up to my job, or telling my husband I love him. It could be something small and I may not even know I’ve done it because my actions may affect someone else. That’s what I hope for, anyway.

Irish exit

Just spent the evening with colleagues. While I had fun, the problem is that they felt like they needed to take care of me. Because they don’t know me, they didn’t know what ‘ok’ looked like so when I got the hiccups in the taxi, and kept everyone in stitches while they were also tipsy, they perceived that as hammered. And even though I’m 47 and know what my limits are, and was conscious of it with every sip, they didn’t. We always think we know better – for others but not for ourselves.  It’s unfortunate.

What’s going on?

We had a decent therapy session. No drama, no crying, just a lot of ‘how can I give you more of what you need?’ And then a great dinner with a couple of glasses of wine. But he felt a million miles away. Yes, he was hungry. And maybe tired. And maybe he’s not thinking about anything other than those two feelings. Because he’s a guy. But isn’t that a copout? Isn’t that like saying I must only think about babies and rainbows? To be fair, I love babies and a good rainbow is something to behold, but still. Aren’t we better than this? Isn’t the goal to evolve, instead of grow further apart? Maybe that is what’s happening and right now I’m only feeling the processing part. I’m also pre-menstrual (thanks mother nature!) so that doesn’t help. Sleep will help. Sleep and water. Oh and hearing from my kiddo that he’s safe and sound. Those things are feel good certains.