I have written all of my life, since I was first able to put pen to paper. It took me many years to summon up the courage to share my writing, apart from the work I had to do for school.
I miss writing. I need to write. Without an outlet to write, I think I would lose my mind. I have taken an unintentional break from blogging because life has been so busy and what has happened is that I find myself scrawling notes and ideas and starting and stopping and generally driving myself mad at not being able to finish anything.
A big part of the problem is life itself. I work hard, full time in order to run my house, the nine cats and keep us all in some sort of order and good health. I have a full on relationship. I am an animal activist. I have a friend with major health problems who over the past two weeks has needed the time and care I can spare (and she deserves more than I can give her). I myself suffer from ME and fibro and over the past year or so it has become considerably worse.
The very few blocks of time I have to talk to friends or write, I spend instead on the PC because my brain just needs to timeout space. I share my life with my friends in small globules of funny or outrage instead of having the time and energy to sit down and write exactly how I feel.
Sometimes I am not sure how I feel, except over-whelmed, tired and sore.
What I really want at times, more than anything is for the world to go away and for me to be left alone to process my shit and get it down on paper instead of having it whirling around my head, all of the time. There are two draft blogs on this page and five more on the laptop that I just have not finished. I have 80 pages of a book which I must write, which seems to yell at me everytime I look at my laptop.
But I can’t.
At the moment, I have a shitload of ironing to do, the house is a tip (and the state of my body means I only just keep on top of the litter trays and the hoovering and even then not sometimes which is embarrassing).
So I get up, do some hoovering and when the pain gets to much, I sit down again on the laptop and play games or cuddle or groom a kitty and then I get up again to scrub three litter trays and ouch that hurts so I sit down again to ease the hurt. It’s not productive and I end up frustrated and annoyed.
I have five letters to write and a very important phone call to a friend to make and all my brain can say is “meh, can’t do it”.
And friends are asking for a kitty blog and I would love to do it and I keep on thinking about it but it is just one more thing for me to think about whilst I try and whirl about and keep everything going, knowing that at some point I am going to trip and one of the metophorical plates I keep spinning is going to fall and clip me upside the head.
And well-meaning friends have said – just cut down on what you are doing. Which is well-meaning and honest but in truth, I am not doing a lot except trying to cope.
As I sit here, Grumpy is cleaning himself. No big deal, cats clean themselves, don’t they? Except he doesn’t. Hasn’t done in the 9 months I have had him. He has occasionally licked his paws and scratched an itch but properly clean himself? Never.
Today, for the first time, I was able to entice him into playing. He just doesn’t know what it is, but he is learning.
I should just take what triumph and pleasure there is in that (and don’t get me wrong, I take immense pleasure in turning an unhappy, unhealthy kitty into a healthy, happy one). but oh my goodness, I want to be able to write again, properly.
Maybe, just maybe, this post is a start …