My monthly blog post.

I doubt I ever will be able to post as often as I used to on this website, since the excitement of having a lot to say has twittered away, and my reasons for blogging are changing. Most blogs are losing steam — I feel sad when my favourites fade out. But one does get tired of one’s own voice.

I continue to blog for the love,  maybe not as much for therapy. I'm remembering that my journal is a great place for navel-gazing. But I still want to write to you. I have things to tell you, important things that I've considered carefully while driving Seven to school, doing the dishes, or watching American Idol. I'll keep posting here, as much as I can.

Last year after Adam and I separated, in the midst of all the trauma, I felt vaguely enthusiastic about the idea of a fresh start. I believed it was a chance to transform myself, as if I was a butterfly that could just fly away from our marriage.

After leaving our relationship, I realise I have only traded sets of problems, and of course I am still the same neurotic, lazy person. It is humbling to become aware that the issue wasn’t our relationship, but me.

I was probably overconfident. For example, I thought I could do everything myself around the house. Cleaning my hair out of the shower drain isn’t that hard. And I thought I could hire a handyman to do the really difficult chores, like sweeping the chimney, or removing a wasp nest from the garden shed.

But I find myself increasingly baffled by what I need to do. I don’t know how to change the vacuum cleaner bag because Adam always did it. I am perplexed when I need to repair the door of the dryer—should I use glue? 

I tend to let housework slide. The house is a mess. The stove and the shower both need cleaned. And I am STILL looking for a cheaper house—my search spurred on because Landlord raised my rent.

Thinking about the money I need to spend week to week makes me panic. My spare energy is directed at finding stable work. All I want is to claw myself out of poverty, put a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, food in our bellies. I am constantly afraid, anxious about the future. Will I be able to get back on my feet? I scold myself for being childish and wallowing, but I worry I have made the wrong choices in life.

I don't want sympathy or encouragement. I am just trying to say that I am still here if you want to keep reading. And I am OK. I am not beaten. I know I will get through this. Tomorrow is another day.