p.s. i'm over my desire to be
diagnosed. it took me a while though.
What she really wanted to do was write. A novel, perhaps,
but the doctor said
memoirs would be more therapeutic. After having kept a diary for thirty three
years, she certainly had enough resources to call upon. She didn't like attending
school meetings, having coffee with the neighbors, or shopping for light bulbs.
Writing was the only time she was perfectly content. The only way she could
be completely in her own world, yet not alone. with the words on the page,
she felt company. When you really hate sharing, it includes life. She felt so much
bigger than life, and trapped by it at the same time. even if she could fee herself
of obligations, meetings, and the general goings on she is still bound by deeds
and thoughts, colours, and music. all very restricting. so on paper, although
bound by words, she could at least put them together in any combination to
become whomever she desired. mother, lover, chef, historian, writer.
This is a character who's created world seems more real.
As real as eggs,
meetings and environmental choice. real lives. The character is free. Free
to change. Free to love. Free to hate. From here, the world can shine on
both sides. Shutting it out is just too obvious. Internal growth and avoiding
life itself. Too easy. Too much. Too painful. Then she called the doctor.