This day did not start or end well. A friend told me that there are no bad days, just hard ones and they do come to an end. I am confident that tomorrow WILL be a better day. That being said, I overslept and did not make it to my weight lifting class so there is no workout to talk about so I am going to mix it up a little bit.
I am still in a funk. I have been in a funk for, well, I have no idea how long now. Maybe it’s because Disney Vacation is so close yet so far away (18 days, just saying). I have no idea what started it. Running has been one of my biggest bright spots in the week. I feel like I am progressing in that area. I mean I was able to maintain pace with the girls that are generally faster than me Monday night. I feel great in that area.
Today, work frustrated me. People pretty much always frustrate me. I do have some great friends. (Cheryl, if you are reading this and not just favoriting the posts, you are one of those great people.) I have a wonderful husband and set of in-laws. I’m not unhappy just utterly frustrated. My hours at work are just whatever. They go through ups and downs and I am used to that.
One of my big frustrations is coming from writing. Growing up writing was for me what running is for me now. I used it to escape everything. My parents arguing all the time, the town I hated, everything. I started writing stories as soon as I was able to put sentences together. I still have my stories I wrote in first grade. I took writing classes in college and it had always been a dream of mine to get published one day. I loved writing. I carried notbooks with me to family get togethers, vacations, and classes. It’s how I worked my own problems out and how I travelled to places I never thought I could ever go. My mother and I have a very difficult relationship. We were fairly close when I was a kid but it hasn’t been that way since I became more independent. We started on our downhill slide when I was in my senior year of college. When I moved back in for grad school, it continued to get worse. I dealt with things like I always did, by writing. My mother found my story and got incredibly angry. I guess it sounded a little too familiar and she confronted me. She was angry and waving the pages (I’m old school, what can I say) in my face. She probably doesn’t remember that even happening but I do. I haven’t been able to write a word of fiction since that day. Lately, I have been getting the itch to write. It’s gotten stronger and stronger but nothing will come out. Talking to the couple of teens I see that write like I did when I was their age makes it even worse. I am determined to break through this brick wall and figure out what I have to say. Okay that’s all my ranting for the day.