Cuntface is Closed.

Bitches, it's harder to get in there than Harvard. Shit's locked tighter than a virgin's daughter. I don't even know if I can get in anymore.

Busy.

I've been busy with stuff.

It's fun not to write here. I'm writing secret emails and Cuntface stuff. That's nice.

It's nice not to feel that awful compulsion to write here. While processing my stuff has been wonderful and will continue to be wonderful, it's good for me not to have that awful, endless need.

The best thing about having this site and having you guys reading and responding is that when I'm in the midst of a crisis (for instance, when there is a drunken loon threatening to kick in my beautiful, hard-earned door), I start planning my post. The whole experience feels less wretched and fruitless and embarrassing because I have this space for it...this purpose. I could hardly wait for the cop to leave the other day so that I could come back inside and write my stuff, and then I spent much of the rest of the day checking for your comments on my stuff.

No matter how settled I feel, though, I want to commit to writing here at least once a day. It's good for me as a writer to be a part of this community and to have a place to spill my guts. It's also important for me to remember that I am a junky's wife. It doesn't matter if he's got 3 months, 6 months, 12 months clean...if he's going to meetings every day for the rest of forever...I am a junky's wife. My husband is a drug addict. He is. He always will be. Writing here holds me accountable to that fact, and keeps me connected with my own recovery.