My writing is mostly emotional. I think I have too many feelings. Sometimes it seems like feelings are all I ever think about, but since I began writing in two private journals, I discovered that it wasn’t so.
There is much more to my head. And I am relieved. I was afraid that marriage and work has reduced me into a whining helpless bitch. But it hasn’t.
I have been writing P through snail mail and I have found great happiness in it. I am grateful to have a friend to write to and who writes me. I am happy to have someone who appreciates all the little words I want to write.
I am happy to have a friend like F who knows that giving me a moleskine will compel me to write. And even more thankful that he can sit in the passenger seat of my car and be supportive about my driving. He’s mostly unhinged, but he’s the kind of quiet that makes me feel better about being myself. He’s the guy who waited for me to take photos of barnacles, even when he thought it was stupid.
I still write about being married and about work. And I’m still unhappy about my relationship with my husband. My friends will never understand why I still wait for something good to happen when things have only gotten worse. But I would like to wait, because maybe the man I fell in love with is hiding underneath the mean and angry man I go to bed with every night. I really want to wait and I would really be grateful if my friends could just be supportive and not say I told you so.
