A Room of One's Own. Virginia Woolf

It is funny that I'm trying to find my room. I always blamed Papa, he was an ENORMOUS time drain. I love him and accepted as daughter my life was 'less than' and his needs 'were great'.

Not saying his needs were not, but...
I'm not my mother. No wish to be my mother. I am me. Flawed and all that, but I did the best I could given the circumstances and for the most part the children survived me and my flaws...

When my dad died, I thought that time would open up and ....
Not so much. I've found that the swirling herds of need saw that I was no longer engaged and descended.
This is not a bad thing.
It is just a hard thing.

My mornings are no longer my own.
My evenings are gobbled up by the needs of others.

I am not writing as much as I'd like. This is not good, but I have no room of my own.

I decided that Sunday's were mine. I filled Saturday with needful things and I still find my Sunday encroaching on my time alone. Cat threw up on the carpet and comforter. Need to clean both. Stupid stuff really.

Sundays will be mine. I acknowledge the fact that it might take time but, I have given all and have asked for little; I am asking for this.

Sundays are mine. My room of my own. My time.
I need my universe to accept this and respect tins.

My time.