Things are getting worse. I think it’s because the end of the marriage is near, and that part is fine, but also I’m fully in the anger stage of my grieving process as I work through the loss. I’m someone that has trouble staying mad, and my anger almost always turns to sadness.

Tomorrow is March 1st. I can’t express how important this day is, how I’ve kept my focus on powering through to March, an idea that if I just make it through winter to longer days, to more daylight, to the raw symbology of Spring and life renewed. Somehow I think this will help me, and I still believe it will, but it won’t fix me. Some Spring, some years in the future, might hold that feeling, but it won’t be this one. There’s still too much pain, enough that no amount of sunlight could ever melt.

I miss my dad. I had a dream the other night that I walked into a house where my brother was staying, and my dad was sitting on the couch. I looked at my brother in shock, and asked in disbelief “Why is dad here, what is going on?” to which my brother explained that there was a mistake, and they were indeed able to revive him, and he’d simply been in a coma this entire time. My dreams can be diabolical in their details, and this one through in some flavor to make it feel all the more real when my brother explained it was due to liability issues with the hospital, and they simply could not relay the truth until my father has woken up to sign a waiver of responsibility.

I ran to my father and cried will grabbing him in my arms. He cried too and said how sorry he was to put us through the pain, and I told him it didn’t matter and how happy I was he hadn’t actually died. I woke at this point at 7:45am and was crying in real life too. When I realized why, it hit me even harder, because the dream was of course not reality. Reality hits hard after these types of dreams, and I cried and cried and cried.

I haven’t been able to mourn the passing of my father. 10 months s not enough, and at 10 months my ex wife had her affair, thus freezing my mourning process like an ancient bug in amber. There, it lies preserved and raw, wholly unprocessed, waiting for its turn. I’m hoping that one day, perhaps one Spring, that the sun will indeed be warm enough to melt that amber, to set the pain free.

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