My grief has kept me from living so many parts of my life, I can’t even count them all.
It’s been hard, truly, extremely hard, for me to return to reading, and even harder, outside of this blog, to return to writing.
I am desperate to write. I want to, all the time.
But I can’t. I can’t bring myself to work on fiction because it feels like a betrayal of my self.
Not myself, but my self, the self-part of me that is in mourning for my mother still.
That will be in mourning for my mother always.