Days Move On

Much of the six week program I attended is to help you move - insert your preferred phrase here - on, with, through, your problems. My problem was with grief shutting down my life. Other participants had a range of different problems, all shutting their lives down. I still cry. I still live. I still cry. I still watch TV. I still cry. I still go to work. Days move on. This week we start vacation, and we start with a trip to a restaurant in Paris Tennessee that is run and operated by special needs adults. One of the last exercises with my not-exactly-group therapy was to have a plan if I break down and cry. And to likewise prepare for a lovely lunch. Days Move On. My boy won't be in the car with us. He won't play with my hair. He won't hold my hand. Or fight me over the front seat. I won't have to worry about him choking on snacks that are too dry or making sure he doesn't spill a drink or plan bathroom stops for him along the way. It's unfair that I don't get to do those things. To hell with god if there is one for screwing us over. Days move on. And i've learned from my not-exactly-group therapy that it's OK to enjoy vacation. And miss him. And enjoy vacation. It's OK to go to the grave and the cemetery. But maybe I can process in such a way that I'm not laying on the grave at night crying. Days Move on.