So, where do you write? I wonder. I’m curious about other people’s habits – all of them, but for this post I’m mostly just thinking about writing. And wondering where you do it.
I used to write in my journal in bed before I fell asleep. I remember doing that from the time I was 10 years old. I would write in my little diary with a lock on the front, in the pitch dark and then try to read what I wrote the next morning. I was always a little surprised – and maybe a little disappointed – when it was fairly legible. What I actually had to say probably wasn’t all that interesting, I guess.
But now I write at the computer in the room in our house that most closely resembles an office. The office look due in large part to the built in bookcases framing the window, but mostly to the wood paneling from the original design when the house was built in 1954. We decorate it now with kitschy cross-stitch pictures or velvet paintings. Paint-by-numbers and burlap big-eyed kids adorn our wistful 70s walls.
Usually I compose in my head, the first paragraph or so, and when I can squeeze in a few consecutive minutes, I bang something out. Either when Lily’s watching a movie or fast asleep – the only two times a day when she doesn’t need to be actively engaged in things only a 3 year old requires; making shopping lists full of nothing but x’s and o’s, mailing works of art made of stickers and bingo paint pens.
But most recently, I’ve been typing up posts at work, if at all.
My therapist called a couple weeks ago to check on me. I haven’t been to see her in almost 2 months. I told her I had to cancel an appointment initially because of a scheduling conflict but that lately I just don’t feel the need. She said she thinks I’m in a good place and that she would tell me if she felt otherwise.
I feel in a pretty stable place, too, for the most part. I still have moments of disbelief, regret, feeling cheated out of my happy life, stupid sadness and grief, but I know what to do with those feelings when they come around now. I’ve learned how to just feel them. Let them have their way with me for just long enough before I gently scootch them back
into their own sad room until next time.
I’m what they call, good-natured. Generally I just want to be happy, pride myself on being fair minded and pleasant. That’s one of those things about me that hasn’t changed. It’s one of those core values that seems to be what has kept me from drowning in my own sorrow.
I simply don’t want to. Deep down, I am not the type of person made to not get back up. As tiring as that sounds.