I’ve been quiet this last couple of weeks. I’m engaged in a process of frantically holding everything, every feeling and memory and thought inside a box with a lid that wants to spring open. It’s the only way to manage just now. I was only able to take the anti-depressants for a month and coming off them just as they were beginning to work has been a bit mind numbing.
The only way to manage all the things in my head which can’t be said out loud is to try not to think them at all. That means not indulging in any grief, but in order to do that, it means trying not to think of Freddie at all. Not thinking of Freddie, because my head and my fear are firmly focused in a new place, brings all it’s own problems; guilt is one, so guilt, along with fear and hope and terror and physical exhaustion are all forced inside the box, with me balanced precariously on top, holding them down, holding them in.
So here I am, wordless with a million words to write and not quite ready to have the conversations. From which you might draw many conclusions – and you might be right – but since these thoughts are private even in my closest human circle and I know not where they read, I’m not saying anything. You can cross your fingers if you like.