Too much writing, I know. But maybe one day my family will want to read this and absorb the details. We are great archivers in our family and there are so many letters and books and documents passed down, through generations. My father actually had enough of his grandmother’s diaries and recollections to base a whole thesis, focusing on feminism and independence, for his Phd. His preliminary draft was good enough that an English literacy/historical publishing house wants to make a book of it.
Mostly, though, I write for me: to get it out. Crying on and off all afternoon does relieve a little stress but mostly I want to share it with somebody else. And my husband is away for four days; I am so fed up with his absence. He is not a FIFO and doesn’t get pay and time off like the true rosters: that is sucked up into the profit margin of his manufacturing company, who see him as another piece of equipment useful to send up to the minesites to service other pieces of equipment.
I’ve grown accustomed to him being there for me, at every available level. He assures me that he is always there for me. Except, of course, when he isn’t. And this latest jaunt isn’t work but volunteer SES stuff (a camp for teams all around the state to compete with each other as to good deeds done). Complaining about his absence makes me look like a selfish bitch in this situation.
I know that he won’t miss me at all, being all caught up in the toy soldier scenario, but I miss him. I’ve grown accustomed to my incredibly indulgent support system and I don’t like it that I am not able to take comfort from him.
Hence the writing. Just putting it out there makes me feel a little better.