My diary entries have been lacking as of late, and I regret to write that I do not know why. Might it be my frequent outings or perhaps my prioritizing of time spent among the lasses of my house? I’ve made the decision, now and here, to jot down some reoccurring thoughts if not, as well, the complex knit of loose ends and splayed trims that is my mind’s journey. It is all so monstrously complicated for my new ways bring me both happiness and deep loathing.
My beloved step-daughter Henna and revered housekeeper Melissa have been so fine to me. In fact, they have been outstandingly kind to receive me in my months here and have nurtured the most meaningful and sympathetic relations with me. These women have kept my bravery and fierceness for life steady in these months, and I hope they receive my appreciation well. Melissa, fierce as a fire but kind as a mid-summer morning, spoke to me in mild tones on the porch, last week if I recall, and we shared a moment I seldom experience. I told her, with a sad affect, the heart-less things Mr. Hayward had told me, and she looked at me with an adoring smile and spoke to me in a tone of voice that reached my core indescribably: “Keep doing what you’re doing,” she said. We lasses share an exclusivity with each other that goes far beyond the spoken or written word. This moment we shared informed me, beyond a doubt, that she not only knows but condones.
Besides the women of my new household, I have been regrettably avoidant of my older friends. I know my reason: I have had a tendency, an unfortunate one, of losing my wits and sense around them, which feeds their eternal concern for my wellbeing. I am well! Indeed, I am fine… Their concerns, though kind, are unwarranted.
My husband is a good man who
Mr. Hayward kindly t
My husband has his own queer ways, as do all. He treats me cordially. I knew, from our betrothal, that it would not be a marriage begotten by ultimate love but a realistic circumstance, of which we would make the best. I do not regret my decision of marrying him and I find my desire for a different outcome is likely entirely normal. For the moment, I simply wish he wasn’t so forward. He has said things to me that might deeply scar another wife. If not for my personal choice to postpone the possibility of an inheritor, I might have received his unjust comments as a thousand burning arrows to the chest. He cares little for me and my whereabouts and my activities and I prefer this. He never asks where I have gone or with whom. In fact, he asks nothing and says very little. Although, what with his ambitions, I believe he is growing disappointed. However, I care not. Everything I told Laendra was UNTRUE. My wits were muddled and I must’ve desired drama and attention.
I intended this entry to organize my heart, but I am left confused. Why am I unhappy despite my best efforts? Presently, I find myself overwhelmed by a great, sorrowful longing for my former life. I feel a distinct breed of loneliness, in which I yearn for something formless and veiled. I am restless, like I am starving, but nothing satiates me.
Did I make a mistake?
If fate truly guides us, I suppose I did not. I had countless alternative suggestions and made unfathomable numbers of decisions along the way. It feels so wrong to say it was inevitable but so heart-shattering to know it was my own fault.
