I neglected Rosa yesterday and feel terrible for it. She walked. Watched television. Read her books and looked at magazines. She was waiting for me to finish. I tend to be compulsive and got completely caught up in writing for the whole day--sequestered in this front bedroom with the door shut. I try to tell myself I am "working" even though I see little monetary benefit (I only made $8 dollars on my blog yesterday).
"You don't have to say anything," Rosa told me as I emerged from my writing hermitage.
"Sorry," I said, weary eyed. "I got carried away."
Rosa already had on her sleeping clothes and was curled up on the couch reading a National Geographic.
"I will make it up to you tomorrow," I finally said as I lit up a cigarette--bluish smoke billowing around my face.
Rosa folded the magazine shut and got up.
"I am going to bed. You staying up tonight?"
"Yeah," I replied sheepishly. "I am not tired yet."
I heard the back bedroom door shut with a soft thud and I was alone. I felt so guilty. I hate it when my energies take an inner focus like yesterday. I have little left for others after one of my creative bursts of writing. One of the biggest side effects of my schizophrenia is a poverty of giving or recognizing others in my life. It is such a selfish disease. I get so caught up in my own desires and emotive writing that I forget that others are jostling for my time as well.
It was well after midnight when I opened the bedroom door to find a dark room and the sound of Rosa snoring. I quietly stepped inside flanked by Maggie as I took off my shoes, socks, and put on one of my favorite sleeping t-shirts. I crawled into the bed and lay there for hours as Rosa and Maggie slept. I was sleepless. I love you, I thought. And I am sorry for neglecting you. I never did sleep and finally got up to come in here and start another day of writing.