Bed and books

Five days into my least favorite month and I am feeling OK. My “detox” is going about as well as can be expected. When one gives up sugar, carbs, alcohol, etc., there is a certain level of crankitude that I feel is acceptable. Especially when my darling children haven’t exactly been on their best behavior. In fact, it is almost as if they are pushing the boundaries more than usual. Or maybe I have just lost my capacity to deal with bullshit. Either way, it’s been a little rough here at home.

Full-disclosure: I haven’t written because I can’t bear to think about my life or my children or my challenges or string together a semi-coherent sentence for one minute longer after I tuck the little devils into bed. I turn things around in my head while I am driving or washing dishes and think about what I will write, but by the time I have them in bed the only thing I can do is crawl into bed and lose myself in a book.

I’ve been trying not to beat myself up about it and telling myself that I am not not writing because I can’t deliver on the brutally honest reality that I promised with “full-disclosure February”. No. It is just a measure of self-preservation. Even though it is true that I feel better when I write, sometimes (like this last week) I just need to turn off completely.

With that said, and my short, sweet (feeble) attempt at a post behind me, I am off to finish the book I am reading (Station Eleven, by Emily St. John Mandel; it is excellent) and to finish the laundry. Tomorrow is another day.

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