The sadness is rising slowly, like yeast rising in dough.
The tears are forming on the outside of my eyes.
I've taken my anxiety medication to settle down my nerves.
I've done everything I know to do yet I believe there is more I haven't thought of yet.
I'm watching movies that transport my mind to natural disasters, people being wrongly accused of crimes and Bible values taught by a crew of cartoon vegetables.
I don't want to watch any violence, war, blood or scary movies.
My appetite is still way down. I've had two meals. Small meals. Only because I feel nauseous when I don't eat. I'm drinking water and sugar-free lemonade.
I'm going to a movie with a friend. I'm getting out of the house. It will be strange to be out of the house.
I see my therapist today. I will bring a copy of what I've been writing about my Dad's death. I think it will be a lot. I'm hope we do not try to get through it all. I think I'll say that to Faith.
The time I've spend writing has been laborious and emotionally draining. The memories are racing to the front of my mind. I find them to be fast and obnoxious.
They seem to be pushing themselves to the front, not caring about who or what's before them. They have a sense of urgency. It's as though they're reacting to a stimulus that's shouting, "If you don't get to the front, you'll die in the abyss of her mind, forever."
I don't want these memories to die. In fact, I believe they never die. I believe God keeps them alive and stores them in a safe place until I'm ready next time.
I don't want a next time.
I want to go through all of this.
I want to be healed and made well.
I want my broken heart sealed with God's glue.
