I decided to spend most of today working on the book about Mum. I’ve now reached 50,000 words and it’s time to take a break from it for a couple of days. It’s hard work, mainly because of the bad memories it’s stirring up, but I’m convinced that once it’s done, I’ll feel a real sense of relief. Writing really can be good therapy. My stance is this, who cares whether anyone believes me? I know that what I’m writing is the truth and that’s good enough for me.
On that note, I’ve decided it’s high time I started to treat myself better. How can I expect to find love if I don’t love myself? I’ve had the spare bedroom ready and waiting, in case Mum or anyone else came to stay. Now I’m going to move some of the furniture from my room into there so I can make my bedroom a nicer space to sleep in. I might even get a quote for a fitted wardrobe with sliding doors as that will give me extra cupboard space. Who knows, the extra space might even encourage me to start using the desk I bought a year ago for my painting and drawing.
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