I'm sorry about the bad day. I couldn't sleep either last night, and DD3 wet the bed. Anyone would think she had a bladder like a Texaco tanker, just from the state of her sheets, stuffed animals, mattress, books, magazines, and various other ephemera, including a nasty collection of blue jay feathers she likes to poke out of the tops of her pajama pants, to give her squawking that touch of realism.....so, I'm not very helpful, but since misery loves company, I'm right here.
I know that in the early stages, I always wanted to write to H and explain myself. If you're feeling that way yourself, then you know how all-consuming that urge can be. Part of your anxiety and troubled mind---this state of hyper-alertness, maybe?---may be the reams of manuscripts flowing through your head. I used to go to work every day and compose fantasy conversations with H---ALL DAY LONG: fortunately, these lodged firmly in my goofy head, so nobody suffered from them but me.
I don't think that it ever does anybody any good to tip them off that the letters won't help. Was it Lester who said, it's just time that will heal you? Nobody wants to hear THAT. But it is true...gotta love that time and distance.
For what it's worth...my suggestion...if you've got letters and writing on the brain: write yourself a fictionalized account of your situation. Make it funny, if you feel that way---then read it to yourself. If you like it, share it with a friend. I found that when I did this sort of silly thing it actually focused my mind, and I started to look forward to finding the time to write my little stories. I'm putting together a strange little scrapbook for myself, a sort of anti-family album, with all kinds of weird things in it: like the calling card of the muscle-bound lady who served me my divorce papers; the poem that OW wrote.... Of course, I must hide my anti-family album from my children. But secrets can be fun.
