A Room of Her Own

I don’t have my own room. And I’m crumbling.

I know, I know, Virginia Woolf’s Essay was actually called ‘A Room of One’s Own’ but I always thought, it should have been called ‘her own’ because in the end she discussed the need for a woman to have her own room. And she was so bloody right. I never forgot that and when my husband and I drew up a contract, I stated in it that latest after 6 months of me loosing my room in case his children should join us, he needs to pay for my own apartment or whatever he likes, just as long as I can get my own space.

All women know this problem. She takes care of the family and while her man will have his man-cave, either the basement or the garage, all she is left with is what? The kitchen? I’m talking about the average family who hardly gets by. We make concessions and a (caring) woman will always deny herself the things she needs in order to give her family what they need. Is it in our blood? I don’t know.

All I know is that a woman without her space will crumble.

I’ve reached my breaking point and I’m leaving. Forever? I don’t know. I love my husband dearly but I need my sleep and I need my room. I can get neither in this house and yet I’m expected to always be loving and patient and caring.

Yeah, right…