It’s Not Always About Writing
Not everything in my life is writing centered, which may or may not explain why I’m not a published author. There are times when I don’t want to write, not because I can’t, because I just don’t want to write.
I suppose I could explain a lot in one simple… ok, several fairly simple sentences. Everything is linked, is it not? Everything we do, or everything that is done to us (with or without our permission) can, and will affect us. So, my simple statement is this: I live with an alcoholic. It was my choice, although I will admit to not realizing how bad it was when she moved in with me.
We’ve been best friends since way back (30 years or more), so when I came out of the closet she was one of the first I told. She eventually admitted the same and after my divorce, we felt it was only natural for us to share… life. I knew she drank a lot, but it wasn’t until I saw it up close and personal that I realized I had bitten off more than I could chew.
Yet, my love continued. We had a very tumultuous first eighteen months, with screaming matches, broken promises, and a heartache so deep I thought it would kill me. It didn’t kill me after all, and things began to get better.
Then I made a huge mistake. I created a couple of characters for a story that were/are a little too close to “us.” I love the plot (fantasy/sci-fi) and the supporting characters. But whenever there is trouble in paradise, my main characters withdraw into the deepest part of my mind and refuse to come out.
Note to self: never do that again.
Anyway, my partner had been dry for several months and things were going rather well. Then we discussed the possibility of having a glass of wine every so often, or a drink now and then.
I craved normalcy. I longed for evenings with a glass of wine in hand and favorite music in ear, and my best gal and I laughing and enjoying the moment. I longed for those evenings when a couple of drinks would fit the bill and the light buzz would lighten the mood.
My heartache had dimmed and so had some of the memories. I acquiesced and a bottle of wine was opened. Well, a bottle of wine and a can of worms. The drinking is starting to look familiar, and while she insists she’s not the same person, not even the same drunk that she was last year, that heartache that I thought was gone has returned and now I fear what may come next.
It is a familiar path, one strewn with sharp reminders and lined with longing. I long for the day when I can leave the house to visit friends and not worry that I’ll be coming home to a drunken partner. I long for the day when I won’t wonder where the bottle has been stashed and worry every time she goes into the bedroom.
It’s times like these when I find my finger hovering over the “delete” key and the cursor pointed at the manuscript.
