why I write

I write for myself.

I enjoy language, words, phrasing. How they feel on your tongue when you read aloud.

Generally it's a private thing. I'm a bit of a perfectionist and somewhat proud (vain) so I'm careful about exposing my work.

Plus, I tend to write things I have trouble saying. It's been like this most of my life. It's a protective mechanism that I've tried to overcome. I need people in my life to hear my thoughts, hear the words that are important. Things I didn't hear growing up like " I love you".

Seeing the words before me though makes everything more clear.

And it's a record of my life. I have piles of journals dating back to my childhood. I used to love writing on paper. Computers, and blogs like this makes writing even more portable.

I often re-read my writing. It helps reminds me where I was during a particular time, how I was feeling, how I've matured...or not.

It's theraputic and challenging.

And it's ultimately where I can be myself.

stage of life

so who thought I wasn't phased by my latest birthday? I really thought I wasn't.

Okay, so I sort of avoided making plans...dithering like a Liberal in government for 13 years. Suck it up, I though to myself. So I quickly invited people for food and a night of festing. Not sure if it helped or not. It ended in karaoke so that should say enough. At least it distracted me.

Then a couple of events over the next week made me feel out of sorts with my life - as the last post will show. As my therapist of many years reaffirmed this sounds like a "stage of life" moment. You know, the kind when you look at where you are and take stock. Sometimes, we find ourselves wishing we'd made different choices; other times we're grateful at where we are.

I suppose I'm feeling the effects of my choices over years. Not necessarily wrong choices; I know I made them for good reasons at the time. I know I have a good life.

Thing to focus on right now is that I want to make it better.

not a good thought

I'm sure there are more women out there like me. Grown up, living alone (or sort of, if you don't count cats), no spouse, no sign other, no kids. With friends far and wide either with both partners and kids or approaching them quickly.

I love the company of my friends. Seriously. I don't know what I do without them. And many days we can hang out and not speak of the children. But put them in a room together and the conversation invariably circles back.

And why shouldn't it? Their children are a huge part of their lives. They fill them up with joy and wonder and sometimes heartbreak. They make them the people I love. Plus, I love the little ones, too.

So why is it that, on some days, I want to run screaming from the room? I tell you, it's not a good feeling. (Why speaking of the spouses doesn't create the same urge, I'm not sure...i think it's the combination of factors)

Ultimately, I know it's because I want what they have. But how do i not feel guilty about such an urge or how do I convey it without sounding completely selfish?

I don't think they know how hard it is to listen to these wonderful and horrible stories but then to go home alone.

And writing it doesn't make me feel any better.