And so it goes. I don’t send the text messages, and I don’t call anyone for help. I stupidly reach out to people whom I should just leave alone, and then feel bad for doing so. I refuse to contact the people who can help, because I’m afraid I’ve bothered them too much already. Any fantasies I have that my phone will ring and someone will be on the other end just to say, “it will be all right” remain just that: stupid ill-formed fantasies. I’ll take a hot bath in a futile attempt to cleanse myself of negativity, grief, regret, remorse, and frustration. It probably will do little good, and I’ll cry myself to sleep for the umpteenth night in a row.
I guess this is the grieving. Again. And, once more, its endlessness is something I cannot even begin to comprehend.