Therapy

For quite a while since my Mother died, I was struggling with what my friend called "needing a tune up." I Googled and searched for my therapist when I found out the clinic I had used was closed and found her on a digital only platform. Fine with me, I never really met her in person anyway. But there was always a long wait period before she had an opening so I would tell myself if I could wait 3 weeks then I could just . . . pause . . . wait. Until one day not long ago when I was sitting on my husband's porch, and my mind started daydreaming and I couldn't stop it. Or I didn't stop it. I dreamed of driving myself right down the road to the cemetery where he is buried. Mine is buried. MyJamie, I think I call him on this blog. MyJamie. I went to the cemetery. I laid down on the green grass. And I died again. I've died so many times I could not keep count. I couldn't guess at how many times I've died. On that green grass, above MyJamie. There I was sitting on the porch imagiing myself in a cemetery barely 5 miles away. I got up. I went inside to the bedroom. I cried until I cried myself to sleep. An hour of the worst nap of my life. I woke up. Logged on to the platform and bought 4 sessions with my therapist from before. I told her that my Mom had died. Because that's IMPORTANT. She understood. Her Mom has died. That's IMPORTANT. I told her that so many of my friends have parents that have died. I'm literally so late so the club. I would have a harder time thinking of friends who still have a parent alive. She told me a funny story about her mother's internment with a ragged old truck. I gave myself 4 appointments for my tune up. I haven't cried since, yet. I am planning to have the worst Thanksgiving of my life for the 5th year in a row.