I am a 30-something woman. I commute to work every day. I sit at a desk doing one of those obscure jobs you would never realize needed doing. I buy groceries and cook, do laundry and watch TV. I listen to music, have a hobbies and friends, family and drama. I am both average and abnormal. I skew demographics and yet still fit stereotypes. I am very smart, passably pretty, charming and creative. I am really, really emotionally messed up. I am trying to get better and I’m writing about that here.
Sometimes I like to imagine I am a wealthy medieval lady who can retire to a convent in what passed for comfort in such places. I would garden all day and try and restore my soul. Or perhaps I could have lounged in a spa clinic on the shores of Lake Como in Italy a hundred years ago in a chaise lounge, with a blanket in my lap, and a book. I stare over the water and admire the blue sky and let nature steal my cares away until I felt recovered. Instead I will work under flourescent lights, drive in heavy traffic and seek solace between book pages, bed sheets, on park trails and in the lyrics of songs.
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