Telling stories

My friend who is being assessed for her breast cancer has just been told her lymph nodes are clear, which is, obviously, fantastic news, and I am genuinely delighted for her.

But there is a little bit of me that thinks “Why me?”. Why does everybody else I know seem to be getting through this, while I am stuck in this permanent state of shit? What did I do to deserve this?

And, of course, I didn’t do anything. I mean, I have partied, I had my children late, I’ve worked hard, I’ve done night shifts. But nothing that hundreds of thousands of other people haven’t done, nothing that my friends haven’t done. Nothing directly causal.

I have decided to blame fiction. I have read too many books. I have a fiction induced fantasy that good people have good things happen to them, and bad people have bad things happen to therm. Whereas, in fact, it’s all just stuff. 

And then I found this article in the Guardian yesterday:

 http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2014/feb/01/lucy-mangan-fairytales-become-reality

So now I’m wondering whether I should discourage the kids from reading. Maybe it’s a bad thing, after all?

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About sarahsouthwest

I'm now in my early 50s. I started writing again as a way of exploring the world, and feel that over the last 2 years I have really grown as a writer. By day I work with children and young people with mental health difficulties. I juggle my own two children, my work, my writing practice, generally managing to keep all the balls up in the air.
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One Response to Telling stories

  1. Alison says:

    Nothing wrong with a bit of escapism. Keep reading….! Xx

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