Who do you write to when you post?
Is it to the people you know read it? I now know a few people I know read it which is lovely, but bizarrely mostly I forget that when I’m typing. When I used to start diaries, mainly as a teenager, I was writing to my adoring public who would be reading these dramatic missives after I had perished in some dreadful heroic way at which point they would all be sorry and would fall upon these manuscripts with bated breath.
I’ve kept up this blog much longer than any diary. I’m always delighted, excited and amazed that anyone reads them though secretly I think most of the visits are from weird spam delivering programmes. Quite honestly though I kind of think I’m writing to myself. A better version of me residing in my subconscious.
Today is a grey day. Inside and out. Homework is being wrestled with, mum rules about television and the amount of chocolate limes being consumed are back in place and picking stuff up is once again compulsory. It’s a hard life.
Especially when you feel as though you’re made from cotton wool. and cold dishwater and the ashtray dregs you have to clear at the end of a bar shift. Eau de Fag ash and cold beer. The trouble with my main pain management plan is that it involves me putting myself away me. Like a disassociation. I stand outside myself. It’s pretty effective and very easy to do especially if you get into the habit early but overall – not good for the soul.
Today I feel like Kay from the snowqueen with a splinter of ice in my heart. Steve puts his hand on my shoulder and I shake him off like a cross cat. Luckily he has faith in the thawing process. It reminds me of when I was in labour with Ida and the midwife suggested I might like him to rub my back. “She wouldn’t.” he said with calm certainty and watching from the outside I was overwhelmed with relief that I had someone who understood that and wasn’t hurt by it.
I’m going to knit, sing an endless round of “row, row” for Ida and hope for a warm front.