Whew! That Took Way Too Long To Write!

Do you ever wonder if it is all worth the effort?

A Swarm of Mosquitoes, A Wiener Dog and a Breakthrough

I don’t write much anymore because quite frankly, I don’t need to. I’m not pathetically sad and empty like I was and I am not needing to work through my grief. Very simple, I grieved and now I am finished. Strange statements to read, strange statements to make. 

"THIS is My Daughter!" My Favorite Words

Decisions. I hate having to make decisions. I think that’s all I do sometimes. Most are as simple as what to wear or what to cook. But then there are those tough, make or break kind of decisions where if you make the wrong one you could regret it. I don’t have regrets but I second guess almost everything. It isn’t healthy but that is how my mind works.

The Clock is Still Ticking Way Too Fast

Time is something that I write and talk a lot about. It is, in many cases, the enemy. It is a living, ticking and controlling thing that we can’t get enough of.

My Boulder, My Memories, My Stupid Dream

I wonder if grief is the same for everyone. I should back up here and let you know that I have moved past the grief. It has become clear to me that others have not and this is bothering me and causing me to feel sad. Not sad all of the time, but sad when I see that they are stuck. Sad because I don’t know what to do at this point.

I Won't Tell You What She Really Thought of Wal-Mart

Irony always makes me stop and wonder.

Spring in Texas

Lately I have been feeling down. It has taken me a while to figure out why, but I think I have.

I'm Still a Wishy-Washy Pile of Goo

What they say about time is true, it does heal. It doesn’t take away the hurt, the void, the deep desire to have my mom back, but the constant pain is no longer there. I’m a little sad because on one level I feel that I am learning to not need my mom. I don’t ever want to not need her and I am afraid that with time, her memory will fade a bit. I’m trying to keep it fresh for my sake and for my kid’s sake. But my daughter doesn’t remember her being here anymore. That is hard to take.

Sometimes an Outhouse is the Only Place "To Go"

I remember my first experience with death. I was very young. He was Mr. May and he worked at a gas station. Back then we called them service stations because they served their customers. I don’t remember Mr. May but his wife babysat me and they were friends of my mom. I thought they were really old but most likely they weren’t much older than I am now. I remember being told that the service station was robbed and Mr. May was shot and killed. I overheard details that really bothered me but I never told. My mom and my brother went to his funeral while I stayed home with my dad. We played. I think he was trying to keep me busy so I wouldn’t ask questions.