I don't write anymore . . . .

. . . . and I hate it.

I write for my job, but it's not the same.


But for this, for me, I can't find a space, a voice , a reason.


I don't want to write stuff that would come from Angry-hurt-soon-to-be-divorced woman. Sometimes, what seems reasonable to be angry or hurt about on Monday is totally pointless on Wednesday. But I need to write. It's what I do. I actually dream in chapters and credits.


Really.


Some nights, my dreams will be prefaced with a "Chapter III" page. Some nights, I roll credits at the end of the dream. It doesn't matter if I've actually seen the dream. Credits will roll. Better than Alice in Wonderland, I suppose, when heads roll. But. I had a point.


My point was . . . . ?


Oh yes . . .


I write. I need to write. But I feel like I can't write about the stuff that is closest to my heart these days. I don't want to hurt people who may not deserve it. I don't want to publish things I can't take back. But I'm left feeling as though my tongue were cut out and my hands cut off, with no way to say how and what I feel.

Divorce is an ugly thing, no matter how hard you try to make it otherwise. You spent too many years studying one another, figuring out which button to push and when. And some days, one or the other of you will relish pushing that button, just because you can. And some days, you say things you can't ever take back.

And some days, I remember what Hannah said when she found the DIY divorce book in my room: "What if every page said, "Don't do it?"

It makes me sad, but the answer still has to be, "Sometimes, you just have to do it."