The realisation

I am not a writer. How do I know this?  A friend commented on my blog yesterday.  I only pick it up today.  I notice he has a blog.  I didn’t even know he had a blog.  I visit his blog.  It is a blog about writing.  Transpires he writes a lot.  He is a member of  He writes a shit load.  Others write a shit load.  They give awards, mentions, for the ones who write the most.  Sune Hesselbjerg has written 99 stories in 3 months, Bella Vinter has written 80 in five months.  Where do they find the time?  I don’t write at all, except on my blogs.  I am not a writer.

I am a housewife.  A mother.  A soon-to-be grandmother.  A woman.  A woman who likes to think with her fingers.  A woman who thinks too much.  A woman who loves motherhood, but hates housework.  A misfit in the life of domesticity.  A woman who would rather go out with her in-laws to the botanical gardens than clean her putrifying fridge.  I will clean the putrifying fridge, but not now.  I may have to cancel seeing Jay tomorrow.  The housework has to be done.  I don’t want to do the housework.

I sit with my realisation.  I am a housewife that is there for her son.  Her son that has autism.  I am not a career person.  I have intellect that isn’t being used for a career.  I have depression.  I am a depressed intellectual.  Not really, I’m not an intellectual.  I have intellect, but I am not an intellectual.  I am a mother, wife, housewife.  Not a writer.  Not anything that defines me.  Am I defined by my other roles?  That is not a good indication of me.  I think I may be insane.  I read somewhere once that you need insanity to be a parent.  I think I am insane.  I want to delete that I have written I am insane in case it is one day used against me to have me committed.  Apparently, I am also paranoid.  I don’t hear voices, just so you know.

I am not a writer.  Okay then.  I glance at the clock.  My in-laws arrive in 45 minutes to pick me up to take me to the botanical gardens.  I have freedom.  Freedom to not do the housework and go to the botanical gardens.  This is a good thing.  I have freedom to visit galleries and museums.  I don’t do that, but I have the freedom to do it if I want.  I am lucky.  I am a lucky wife, housewife, mother, soon-to-be-grandmother.  I am not a lucky writer.  Because I am not a writer.  But I like to write.  But not wield stories.  I can’t think past my own story.  Maybe I could write a book about my life.  A life of being a wife, housewife, and soon-to-be grandmother.  Therapy.  It would be good therapy.  For my depression.

Depression is self indulgent.  Wallowing.  All consuming.  Some days it is hard to fight.  Okay.  I am not a writer.  I am a depressed woman with domestic roles and no career.  I blog to get my thoughts out of my head.  I am insane.  I am a depressed, insane woman with domestic roles and no career.  And I am in my forties.  I have lived half my life.  My cup is half empty today, not half full.  But I am lucky.  I have freedom.  I also have material well-to-do-ness.  I am well cared for.  I am funny.  Sometimes.  I love freely.  Mostly.  My kids like me.  Mostly.

I am obese.  I am doing something about my obesity.  It is hard wobbling through life.  Depression is hard enough without lugging fat around with it as well.  I am not a writer.  I am many other things but not a writer.  I look at the messy kitchen and the washing on the floor.  I know what I have to do.  I have to succumb.  Not succumb.  Accept.  Accept the roles.  Accept I am not a writer.  Best I get cracking then.



3 thoughts on “The realisation

  1. I beg to disagree Sarah! I only say that from the position that I am starting to accept that I am a writer because I put pen to paper, not because I am about to be published or that what I say has merit in the wider context of the world. We write, that is at least part of what we do on a daily basis and as such, we are writers. We are not published authors, I grant you that, but in my serotonin infused opinion, it does not matter.


  2. Ahhhhhh Sarah, you are a writer. I agree with foundmypen. Maybe not a published writer, but you do write, and you do have the ability to express yourself through writing/typing. Which I cannot do…….. Perhaps your life seems to hold little achievement, but try to see the importance you are to your family. Your son certainly needs you- although he may not show it. Your daughter definately needs you and will continue to do so, with your grandchild arriving soon. Im sure your husband needs you too. Yes you are lucky to have the freedom you have in your life. Do something with it, find something to feel pleased about, or happy about that you can call an achievement-however small it maybe- and I dont mean housework, because this is just a chore that has to be done. Find something to make your heart sing. Whether it be time chatting and coffee with a friend, going to the movies, joining a craft group, etc or whatever it is that will make you happy. It will help to lift you out of the depression. I know this as I suffer too. You must make an effort to join society and life, or else you will just hide away and become more and more down. Keep writing Sarah, as you obviously need to do this and it probably helps you more than a physiologist could, but find something to share with us bloggers that gives you joy. I look forward to following you on your lifes journey. xx


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