I am not a writer. I feel awkward when I write. But write I shall, dammit!
Two weeks ago I ventured into the bizarre world of 'self-help' books. One of these books was about journal writing. I haven't actually gotten around to reading it yet, but I am sure it is very enlightening.

My daughter is six months old. I have spent these last six months trying to figure out what the hell is going on. All the usual crap that I put down to breastfeeding hormones and a bit of depression. But I have been digging deeper into the way I think and the way I behave, a hard and awful process which brings up a lot of self-hatred. Revealing destructive patterns that have shaped my teens and early twenties. Falling into over-analysing myself.

For my birthday I bought a sewing machine. I have been giggling excitedly while trying to sew in a straight line. I bought birthday plants and check on them every day. I sorted through my huge piles of clothes and got rid of stuff dating back as far as college. Having stern words with myself over jeans I grew out of 3 years ago. Looking at old clothes and finally realising that I really was that thin ('now if only I could get that thin again I would be happy' I stupidly think)

These feel like big steps.

Today I had a 'bad parenting day'. I got angry. Very angry with my daughter. I raged and I swore and I actually felt the physical urge to throw myself on the floor and thrash and scream. There are so many emotions that I have let fester and grow. Not knowing how to deal with them. Envy, jealousy, rage, fear, sadness. They are all there. It was a big processing day. I feel guilty about my behaviour today, but I am glad it happened. Because it revealed a lot.

This post feels very discombobulated. I feel very discombobulated.