I am not a writer. How do I know this? A friend commented on my blog yesterday. I only pick it up today. I notice he has a blog. I didn’t even know he had a blog. I visit his blog. It is a blog about writing. Transpires he writes a lot. He is a member of www.movella.com. He writes a shit load. Others write a shit load. They give awards, mentions, for the ones who write the most. Sune Hesselbjerg has written 99 stories in 3 months, Bella Vinter has written 80 in five months. Where do they find the time? I don’t write at all, except on my blogs. I am not a writer.
I am a housewife. A mother. A soon-to-be grandmother. A woman. A woman who likes to think with her fingers. A woman who thinks too much. A woman who loves motherhood, but hates housework. A misfit in the life of domesticity. A woman who would rather go out with her in-laws to the botanical gardens than clean her putrifying fridge. I will clean the putrifying fridge, but not now. I may have to cancel seeing Jay tomorrow. The housework has to be done. I don’t want to do the housework.
I sit with my realisation. I am a housewife that is there for her son. Her son that has autism. I am not a career person. I have intellect that isn’t being used for a career. I have depression. I am a depressed intellectual. Not really, I’m not an intellectual. I have intellect, but I am not an intellectual. I am a mother, wife, housewife. Not a writer. Not anything that defines me. Am I defined by my other roles? That is not a good indication of me. I think I may be insane. I read somewhere once that you need insanity to be a parent. I think I am insane. I want to delete that I have written I am insane in case it is one day used against me to have me committed. Apparently, I am also paranoid. I don’t hear voices, just so you know.
I am not a writer. Okay then. I glance at the clock. My in-laws arrive in 45 minutes to pick me up to take me to the botanical gardens. I have freedom. Freedom to not do the housework and go to the botanical gardens. This is a good thing. I have freedom to visit galleries and museums. I don’t do that, but I have the freedom to do it if I want. I am lucky. I am a lucky wife, housewife, mother, soon-to-be-grandmother. I am not a lucky writer. Because I am not a writer. But I like to write. But not wield stories. I can’t think past my own story. Maybe I could write a book about my life. A life of being a wife, housewife, and soon-to-be grandmother. Therapy. It would be good therapy. For my depression.
Depression is self indulgent. Wallowing. All consuming. Some days it is hard to fight. Okay. I am not a writer. I am a depressed woman with domestic roles and no career. I blog to get my thoughts out of my head. I am insane. I am a depressed, insane woman with domestic roles and no career. And I am in my forties. I have lived half my life. My cup is half empty today, not half full. But I am lucky. I have freedom. I also have material well-to-do-ness. I am well cared for. I am funny. Sometimes. I love freely. Mostly. My kids like me. Mostly.
I am obese. I am doing something about my obesity. It is hard wobbling through life. Depression is hard enough without lugging fat around with it as well. I am not a writer. I am many other things but not a writer. I look at the messy kitchen and the washing on the floor. I know what I have to do. I have to succumb. Not succumb. Accept. Accept the roles. Accept I am not a writer. Best I get cracking then.