The Writing Problem

Lately, I haven't been writing often enough.
And, when I say "Lately," what I really mean is I haven't been writing enough for the last eight years...an understatement.
There are so many things I have done in those eight years, and yet even that was not enough to really satisfy myself with my life. I don't have a real feeling of contentment from that time. I feel that I need to do more in the next eight years to make up for what I haven't done in the last eight years.
Except, the truth is I am putting a dollar sign value on accomplishments that can't be measured from the last eight years. For instance, I "just" recovered from PTSD in the last eight years. Not completely, I don't feel totally whole. And, if I were really completely recovered I'd have a job, right? I wouldn't still be slightly agoraphobic and terrified of working outside my home. But, overall, recovering from PTSD without help of medicinal marijuana or a professional psychologist is a pretty big accomplishment. And, even though I am still unable to pay all my bills, at least I don't go lie in bed and cry hysterically for a week when one shows up in the mailbox. I still don't open them. That takes a few glasses of wine, bill opening; and I am very careful about how much I drink because I can see that I would have to become an alcoholic to be a real regular bill opener. So, I guess I am just a bill peeker and a wine sipper.

Other accomplishments in the last eight years? I have two new daughters.  Two new, beautiful daughters who make every day worth living and waking up for just to take care of them. Truthfully, just taking care of them and doing nothing else but makes life worth living and makes me content.

I guess that's it for now, since the baby wants to nurse and I can't write and nurse simultaneously.