Being Joy

Joy. We can never take it for granted. Before the breast cancer and Steve’s murder I had a lot of joy. Mostly I recognized it on photographs and when I saw my shining eyes in the mirror, but honestly, I did not really feel it. Then the s#*% hit the fan, and joy was gone. Wham.

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I already died

(Note the past tense.) Yes, I hit the wall, I arrived at rock bottom. No, I did not want to live any more. The dark night of the soul, the darkest hour, period. The tiredness was total and overpowering; I let myself be tiredness personified. The next session with my psychotherapist:

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Tired.

I am tired, so tired of all this. I am tired of being asked what’s next. I am tired of talking and thinking about what happened.

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