Craig is snoring and I had caffeinated tea with a neighbour tonight. I can’t sleep so I face the evening chill, wrapped in my fluffy housecoat, to walk to the basement where my office resides. I will write.
I write about our marriage. I don’t get back to bed until 1 am. Then MySelf wakes me up at 5:30. I fought with Myself until 6:10 and now I am writing again. I would have been disappointed if I never wrote today. I would have felt I was behind in making my dreams come true, writing my childhood memoir.
I want to be able to have Craig not stressed and me doing what I love and enjoy. Writing has been making me happy for the last couple of weeks. I don’t want it to stop. Perhaps it is just some kind of therapy for me and it won’t amount to anything more than that. One way or another I feel it will fix me.
The only issue is that I am not really writing what I want to write about, or what I thought I would write about. Most of these last few weeks writing have felt more like journaling about my burnout than about my childhood. Too be honest, I am feeling frustrated with the writing I have been doing. It doesn’t have all the wonderful colours and charm that my story of Rose Valley should have.
I get up every morning and sit here, in my office between 5am and 7am and all I seem to be doing is journalling. I am just venting. Writing about all that upsets me and depresses me during the day. I had hoped this would turn into a memoir about my childhood with my sisters. I do not see it. I will finish my 30 day contract and see what I have got. See if there is a story in here somewhere.