Here it comes, the wash of sorrow, the wave of sadness. The knot in your stomach. The gnawing ache from a hole that will never be filled. Here it comes. The crashing of love and loss, of joy and sorrow, the delight in your child's smiles and the smile you will see no more. The unpacking that never ends. I hear you sorrow, tugging on my skirt like my son once did. I know you're there, I know you're waiting for me to open that box. Not . . .
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Well, it's been a quiet blogging year from me. As the end of the year approaches I get a weird sense of melancholy. Tick, tick, tick, unfortunately with PTSD and anxiety sufferers we have a weird lingering feeling of doom at times. I am scared, scared that one day I will take my last breath and feel like I didn't do enough, see enough, feel enough (or even that I felt too deeply). Regret is the pits. Guilt and regret both emotions I have . . .