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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