A Bad Day.

A Bad Day
I woke up yesterday in a normal kind of mood, you know, not amazing, not terrible, somewhat content. By lunchtime, I was curled up on my bed crying to the core. That deep kind of crying that directs every muscle in your body towards the pit of your stomach.

I bawled my eyes out and felt better, but that kind of crying leaves echoey pangs of sadness in its wake. When you tread on sand under the sea it takes time for it to resettle.

I have no idea why it happened. Actually, that's a lie, I'm pretty sure it's because my mother died when I was 4 and that kind of thing sticks around forever. What I mean is, I have no idea why it happened yesterday. Nothing specific disturbed my dormant granules of grief.

It made me feel out of control. As time goes on and these episodes get less frequent, I kind of forget to expect them. There's a false sense of security that makes them ever more disappointing.

As I sit here dwelling on the fact that this is my reality and probably will be forever; I try to convince myself that a bad day doesn't mean a bad week, which doesn't mean a bad month and that many bad months don't mean a bad life. But that's hard because, among all the fog of the dusty grief, it's clear to me that all I really want to do is see her again.

Enough. I'll feel better tomorrow.

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