Writing is difficult.
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.