A good friend of mine is at a Writer’s Conference, and each evening I am hearing a snippet of how things are going. It is one of the scariest prospects I can think of, to put my ideas and writings out there for someone to really critique, but a part of me wants that. I mean, I do the regular piece every month or so, but that doesn’t in any way invite critique. I haven’t had a piece of writing truly critiqued since I wrote some fan fiction about severn or eight years ago. She is encouraging me to go to one of the future workshops. At times, I think I have it in me, but at other times I have absolutely no confidence in the emails I write, let alone a short story or a chapter to a novel.
Being home instead of on the road is a challenge for me, to be flat out honest. Because I have been gone more than home, I have no semblence of a life here. The consideration of moving has been on my radar for quite awhile, probably the last year or so, but I am feeling it a bit more lately. I MISS home, but with 90% of my time spent not at home, it’s just weird to be here. I don’t know what that says about me as a person that I’d rather be in a hotel. I feel suffocated. I am at Starbucks writing instead of being there.
I think part of it goes back to the divorce. We moved into that house before our first anniversary and I ended up keeping it as my residence after the divorce. At first, I tried to make it my own. I re-did the bedroom first, did a little bit of painting here and there, etc. It was my children’s home, and because I needed to be the “good mother” and do “what was right” for them, I fought to keep it so they wouldn’t have to move from the only home they ever knew. As many mothers do, I sacrificed my feelings for place.
I dated and invited “The Boy” as well as “Buddy” into my home, and at times they exorcised the demons left behind of my ex-husband. It was the site of a love-affair with a woman that turned bad, that put me in a position of not trusting women easily, either. Part of that changed when I took a career detour and pretty much stopped dating. I went over a year with with my bed there being the site of nothing but sleeping alone, until “The Boy” visited this past November for a couple of different nights. Now, with the oldest being the main occupant there, and the fact that her boyfriend half lives there, too, it just doesn’t feel like mine.
I don’t know what I’m going to do yet about it. It’s entangled in the divorce decree still and in order to obtain the full equity I would have to sign off on the retirement of his that is mine. And right now, that is a losing proposition.
Speaking of the ex-husband, I am wondering how much longer he is going to keep the youngest.
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Tags:
divorce,
Ex-Husbands,
Parenting,
Writing