February 27, 2018

I write to clear my head. I’ve done it my entire life. I’ve had hundreds of notebooks over the last few decades and I usually just throw them away after a few years.

I was trying to remember something that happened last year, after Luke died. I started reading thru one of my notebooks. I feel like I am reading someone else’s life.

I am independent. I’ve never relied on anyone but myself. So who is this woman writing in my notebooks? This sad, manic woman? Ecstatically happy one moment and sobbing uncontrollably the next? Going non stop because she knows if she stops she might never get up again.

I sit here and read for hours. At first, in fascination. I am detached. Reading the diary of this woman I don’t recognize. Then, feelings of familiarity start creeping in. I start to cry. I cry for this woman who was once so strong. Who just needed someone to hold her and tell her that everything was going to be OK. This woman who got so lost in the dark and just couldn’t find her way out.

Eleven months after Luke died I slowly came out of a fog. It felt like I was waking from a terrible dream, a dream where you know it was bad but you can’t remember the details. I was thinking clearly and finding happiness in the little things again. I had been drowning in dark water for a year and I was finally able to breath.


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