People who equate truth with fact are missing the point.

Truncated Motherhood

The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone. —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I had a therapist about a year and a half ago who gave me a hard time for maintaining Jacob and Abbie’s bedrooms when they had been gone so long. “It’s . . . → Read More: Truncated Motherhood

41

On the evening of Monday, January 9, I made a note on the next day’s to-do list: find a therapist so you can stop crying yourself to sleep every damn night. A few days later, I sat in front of my new therapist, J., for the first time, and told her that the task at . . . → Read More: 41

Behind My Eyes

I start a load of laundry, take the boy to school, pour a cup of coffee, put the dogs out, answer email.

I fold a load of laundry, make some phone calls, drink another cup of coffee, sit at my desk and write a few listless words that won’t go where I want them . . . → Read More: Behind My Eyes

Withouting

For context, you might want to read this first.

You know what sucks about being sad? Besides the sadness, I mean.

It’s the all-consumingness of the thing.

(Spell checker doesn’t care much for the word consumingness, to which I say get over yourself, spell checker! I have bigger problems than you!)

No, what really . . . → Read More: Withouting

Cry Me a River

Let’s just call grief what it really is: a wily, slimy, and brutally persistent motherfucker. Grief is like moths that thump against the lampshade until I am almost mad with their noise, except these moths are 40 pounds apiece and they are slamming against the inside of my skull. It’s a weight in my . . . → Read More: Cry Me a River

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