One of my personal/professional traits that has helped me and has hounded me is being self-critical. As I read back over the entries in my blog, I'm questioning the continuation of the writing: are my narratives exacerbating or allaying my grief? Does it help or does it hinder my quest toward developing and living some semblance of a healthy life? And does it help or hinder the same goal for those who read it? Am I wallowing in my grief or working through it?
It's been a year since Janell's death. My emotions still reside on my sleeve - a song, a phrase, a hug, a glimpse of her picture - still bring tears. I struggle with even the most mundane of decisions, but now I'm making them. I try to live a day at a time, but when I look down the weeks, months or years, I see nothing but a foggy emptiness. As I stand on the stage, acting as a program evaluator, a neighbor, a functioning person, I feel the future as a shadowy figure in the wings. I look but it's not there. I look ahead and I sense its presence off-stage, waiting.
And so every day - just like the movie All That Jazz - I plant my feet on the floor, look in the mirror and say: "It's show time." When will the act be supplanted by real life again?
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