A Sort-Of Poem On Why I Seldom Write

Writing is difficult.

I’m lazy.

I’m working on a novel.

How often can you say the same thing?

My blog isn’t anonymous; I have to be careful.

And last, but not least, I’m not a grandmother. Duh? Actually this is the most difficult part in my sort-of poem. My older son has been ill for nearly twenty years. When I’m around “normal” families, I am reminded of the differences–the consequences of Sam’s illness. While it’s my son with SZ, I have not been able to get beyond the pain and the loss and the jealousy of others’ good fortune.  I wish them car accidents, leprosy, and all kinds of misfortunes–but just for a minute. Then I return to my senses and go back to being depressed, depressed, depressed.


About waywardweed

I am a consumer and parent of two sons, one with a mental illness and the other a third-year law student.
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