Post by Sidonie Raviver (D) on Aug 4, 2009 0:38:50 GMT -5
Summer turned to Autumn and I had done little else but write. My self hatred had grown to a deep depression where I would refuse to emerge from my room, only doing so at the force of Elenore to bath or sit in the garden for some sun. But I didn't want it, I didn't want anything to do with anyone.
When I didn't write I would sit alone, most times in the dark and think about my life, where I had gone wrong. I believe it stemmed from my mother, from what had happened to her and the mystery of my conception. I never knew who my father way, and I always thought I didn't care. Mother was never really any help, some times she would cry and sob, telling me that she was sure that my father had been her husband, the Duc. Some times, she would cry and sob and tell me she didn't know. I wasn't always she she wanted to know.
I didn't let myself think about it when I was younger, I didn't let myself fall into that world, and what could have been. I could have been a Duchesse, if I had fought, gone back and compared my face to the face of he whom she was married to. I could have been laughed at... I wouldn't have met Adin.
At times I would cry for hours, unable to stop myself, unable to know where the root of the pain came from, why I was doing it. Was it my life, or the life I could have had. I tried not to think of Adin, I had promised myself I wouldn't, that I would scrub him free from my life except for my book. I laughed at that, days later, when I realized that it wouldn't be possible to write a book based on him and not think about him. Though I did try hard not to think too much, I tried hard not to think about where he was, or what he was doing.
Those were the days that I seemed sickest. I didn't tell Elenore for I knew she would call for a healer and I didn't want to see anyone. But at time I was near sick all day, vomiting mostly in the morning when I first woke. Sometimes I would wake at dawn, almost always dawn actually, and be sick then, but I knew it was because of how I was treating myself, which was not very kindly.
Either way, I wrote, amassing almost two hundred and fifty pages total of my novel. I was almost a quarter of the way through already. It seemed to be the only thing that made me happy, the thought of finishing it. At nights I would dream, sometimes pleasantly, some times about Tabien or Aloysius, but most often it was Adin. Those were the nights I didn't sleep well. I knew that all too soon I'd have to confront what I was feeling. But not today, another day perhaps.
When I didn't write I would sit alone, most times in the dark and think about my life, where I had gone wrong. I believe it stemmed from my mother, from what had happened to her and the mystery of my conception. I never knew who my father way, and I always thought I didn't care. Mother was never really any help, some times she would cry and sob, telling me that she was sure that my father had been her husband, the Duc. Some times, she would cry and sob and tell me she didn't know. I wasn't always she she wanted to know.
I didn't let myself think about it when I was younger, I didn't let myself fall into that world, and what could have been. I could have been a Duchesse, if I had fought, gone back and compared my face to the face of he whom she was married to. I could have been laughed at... I wouldn't have met Adin.
At times I would cry for hours, unable to stop myself, unable to know where the root of the pain came from, why I was doing it. Was it my life, or the life I could have had. I tried not to think of Adin, I had promised myself I wouldn't, that I would scrub him free from my life except for my book. I laughed at that, days later, when I realized that it wouldn't be possible to write a book based on him and not think about him. Though I did try hard not to think too much, I tried hard not to think about where he was, or what he was doing.
Those were the days that I seemed sickest. I didn't tell Elenore for I knew she would call for a healer and I didn't want to see anyone. But at time I was near sick all day, vomiting mostly in the morning when I first woke. Sometimes I would wake at dawn, almost always dawn actually, and be sick then, but I knew it was because of how I was treating myself, which was not very kindly.
Either way, I wrote, amassing almost two hundred and fifty pages total of my novel. I was almost a quarter of the way through already. It seemed to be the only thing that made me happy, the thought of finishing it. At nights I would dream, sometimes pleasantly, some times about Tabien or Aloysius, but most often it was Adin. Those were the nights I didn't sleep well. I knew that all too soon I'd have to confront what I was feeling. But not today, another day perhaps.