I have always loved reading, and always wanted to write. But my family… fell apart early. I was the first kid in my class to have parents divorcing.
And I was happy they divorced. It meant that the way they treated each other, the way dad treated us, was not normal. I remember thinking that. That it was good, because dad was wrong, and now I had proof. That his approval was unobtainable was ok, because I would never need it.
But it did crimp my writing. In school. I mean, mom and dad went through custody battles for years. I was convinced that if my writing about summer vacation mentioned us being broke, or anything else objectionable, the teacher would tell dad and he’d take me away.
By the time I started trying to just write at home, I was hung up on approval. I can never get dads approval, but I’m so critical of my own self that is hard to award my creations with approval.
And nothing kills the muse like the critic in the back of my mind saying ‘yeah, that sucks, it’ll never work, the plot holes are impossible to fill’.
I’ve got to work on that.
I’m so critical of my cleaning skills that I don’t clean often because it turns into a clusterfuck of stress. How is that helpful? Luckily, I’ve found unf*ckyourhabitat, it has good advice to get around that.
I’m critical of my relationship skills, and my fiancee and I argue… pretty much any time I let my critic talk me into something.
I need to learn to accept myself. My creativity, my past, my future. My life won’t be what I truely want until I relax and accept that what makes me happy is what makes me happy.
I cannot listen to flylady- shining the sink is senseless to me. But A freshly scrubbed bathtub is a promise of a long soak after I’m finished vacuuming.
My fiancee couldn’t buy me a ring when he proposed. In part because we were living together and I’d told him that purchases that looked like a fraction of rent needed my ok. Even so, I make more money that him. So I bought the engagement ring. And I’m ok with that. I don’t like jewlery, the ring is a symbol that I am taken. If my man gave me jewlery as a gift, I’d be upset and ask him why he didn’t just buy dinner… fix me a cup of tea, even. Fixing a cup of tea for me is worth more (to me) than a bouquet of flowers. Why? Because, it shows that he pays attention to how I take my tea, and that he wants to go to personal effort to make my bad day better.
I love him. So he isn’t perfect… Neither am I. But I feel like he does more for me, than I do for him. Because he brings me tea.
I need to remember that.
To the dark, my love.