Hard Days

The journaling of the hard days

I’m not a journal-keeping kind of gal. Strange for a writer, is it not? Yep. I think it a bit odd.

It’s not like I never write about stuff though. Occasionally I add a few words on my computer to a folder labelled Top Secret. It’s not password protected, nor is it secret because it’s all benign.

But yesterday, that all changed. The last couple of days were hard ones, and I stood with real tears streaming and racing, competing to roll off the chin first as I stood before the neighborhood mailbox. I stuck the small key into the lock of number 10 to find inside a plastic wrapped package that turned out to be a new journal from a writing group that supports other writers in need. The group is referred to as Champions. Oh great! My inner monologue went wild with cynicism. Another reminder of failure. I’m a real champion, all right.

Once inside my home, still crying, I thought why not? Why not keep my thoughts on paper? I searched for a magic marker and gave the cover a title of “Hard Days, by Jane T. Loafer.” Then on page one I commenced my lament in longhand.

I wrote, “I am tired. I’m tired of my giving my time, energy, and money, to have your anger directed at me because something didn’t go the way you wanted. Then to find out you lied to me. You had a need, but it became more than what I signed up for. Initially, this was a symbiotic deal: this was my way of filling a void of being alone, older, needing to be needed, and have a purpose. I’m helping you help your family. But in doing so, I’ve short-changed myself. Your reaction has triggered something in me. I doubt you will like my solution to our problem: I quit.

Hence the tears rolling, racing to be the first to roll off my chin. Hello journal for the hard days.

God give me courage to do the right, but hard thing. Show me how to temper my needs with others in a way that honors everyone involved without my own self being a used, ratty, and resentful doormat

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