I’ve always loved writing. When I was younger I would write vivid stories of tragic young adults, suffering from pain, abandonment, and fear. Stories of children who had been abused by their parents and decided to run away and live in the wild; children who had been orphaned and were sent away to live with a crotchety old aunt in a cold and dreary house. My mom used to joke that if someone would have read the notebooks filled with my stories, they may have thought I had dark skeletons tucked away in my closet and called Child Protective Services.
As a teen, I used writing to express the words and thoughts that were too difficult for me to speak. I wrote poems and letters with ease as my frustrations flowed onto the college-ruled loose leaf. On paper, I was the opitome of bad-assery. I always knew what to say and when to say it. On paper, I wasn’t left standing alone wishing I had said what was really on my mind.
In college, I used writing as a way to escape. I’d sporadically write in my journal, desperate to document my life journey, each time vowing to write frequently… and never living up to my promise. Now as I approach my thirties (gulp) I have realized that writing, regardless of it’s topic, is therapeutic for me in so many ways. It allows me to put my chaotic and rambling thoughts into a logical order and if I’m brave enough, a way of sharing them with the world.
But lately, my thoughts have been too hectic and chaotic to put into words, let alone sentences and paragraphs worthy of reading. And so tonight, I try to recoup. I try to push my mind’s CONTROL ALT DELTE and reset. Lord knows, this girl needs it.
All week I knew tonight was my night. My husband would be at work and technically, due to working part time, I would still be on my ‘weekend.’ I considered my options:
I thought about relaxing in the bathtub. Lighting scented candles, playing Enya on my iPod, piling my hair into a loose bun and climbing into a warm soapy heaven of relaxation.
And then I realized that would mean I would have to rinse out the sand left over from the little sandbox loving toes that occupied the tub earlier this evening, pick up the plastic princess and rubber ducks still littering the floor of the tub, and download a few Enya songs to listen to.
I thought about snuggling under the covers in our king sized bed. A glass of white wine on my nightstand, the windows open with sounds of crickets chirping outside, and a good book to read.
And then I realized that would mean I would have to fold all of the laundry piled high on the bed, tell my teenage neighbors to turn down their nightly backyard chat, and try to stay up long enough to enjoy my book… and wine.
Instead, I settled on snuggling on the couch, hair piled high on my head, a lavender candle burning on the coffee table, and a bowl of ice cream. It’s not what I had in mind, but if I try really hard, I can almost hear the Enya song (the only one I know) over the sound of my obnoxious neighbors, I can almost smell the pages of a favorite old book, and I can almost feel my muscles relaxing.
And so here I sit, with numerous half finished blog posts sitting in my blogspot dashboard, just begging for me to complete and hit that gratifying “publish” button. But instead, tonight is my night. My night to watch whatever I want on TV, my night to ignore the mountain of laundry on the bed (that I will likely push over to my husbands side before I crawl into bed tonight), and my night to watch the new Taylor Swift youtube channel in which she premiers her new album and new single (which I not only find incredibly catchy, but also can totally relate to. In fact, if we were to browse through my college journal entries, I’m rather positive you would find an entry rather similar to her “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” single.) Yes, I’m a teeny bopper and yes I love Taylor Swift. Get over it.
Tonight is my night.
What do you do to reset and unwind?