You can't write your way out

I've been horrible about keeping up with the good habit of writing every day. Writing has collapsed along with my other daily habits like eating healthy and meditating.  I've been reminded that these are the sorts of times and situations, times of conflict/heartache/confusion versus clarity -- that make for good writing.  Inspiration rarely comes when the children are well-behaved or when everything is going the way that was expected. Perhaps it's my way to escape the shock of impending change.  It's typical of the way I was socialized to want to just compartmentalize the painful or disorienting emotions I'm feeling.  I'm an absolute mess.

There are lots of enablers in my life who would say, "Jesus, you've got so much going on right now.  It's acceptable that you don't have time to write." Maybe those were the voices I let get in the way.  Writing is cathartic.  A good writer is made by first being a bad writer; then practice and a good dose of healthy criticism may make that person a better writer. I've been told my writing has improved since starting this blog.  Maybe it has? I'm not so sure.  Like everything else we humans do, we go through periods of extreme enlightenment or improvement, followed by the mundane or mediocre; or even worse, we suck at it again and must start over.

The same could be said for anything, including relationships.  We start out with minor glitches, but somehow the love or maybe just the general attraction for the other person seems to overshadow the missteps or questionable moments.  There are two steps forward and then we stumble backward, only to start once again. It's a strange dance that I'm having a hard time following-- the progression and regression. No relationship is a known, choreographed routine. Each one brings different challenges. With my marriage, I've been falling and failing for a long time.  I've made some incredible progress along with contributing to its ruin, to a point where my other half will never see this relationship as 'normal.'  It was never normal to begin with.
 
I've been accused of so much lately that I can't quite figure out how I'm being so misrepresented or maybe, just maybe, how I'm misrepresenting myself. My husband made it very clear that when I was done, I should just tell him.  I told him.  The telling created a seismic shift in his behavior toward me and our children.  The shift, however, was born out of a crisis and is a shallow attempt to undo the years of challenge and an inflexibility that only the most laid back person could tolerate.  On the surface, things look like they've improved, but there's an undercurrent that still lies beneath it all that hasn't changed, that I'm afraid cannot change.