Last Wednesday I experienced a trauma.
(Voice in my head: Really, Julie. Must you be so dramatic?)
Yeah, I think I must. I’ve had more than one doctor say I’m in the range of worse-than-a-sudden-death-in-the-family, and it feels that big to me. So: trauma. That feels like the right word, for now. That, or AHBL. All. Hell. Broke. Loose.
I am not physically injured, but I have been physically sick. Eating is rough. I’m sure I’m losing weight, but my body feels heavier and heavier.
Today was my first day of normal life since then. (And yet so not normal.) For the past four days, the girls arranged for R-kids to be cared for by others, and they cared for me. Sometimes that meant letting me cry. Or question. Or reel. Or sleep. Sometimes it meant sitting in silence with me. Or taking me to the doctor. Or escaping to Red Wing for a night. Or doing my laundry.
So today was kind of hard. I was alone.
I’ve been sitting here working all day, willing my brain to engage and glad for any small distraction from the heaviness. And just a few minutes ago, this caught my eye:
I typed up that little note in 2001 to get me through a different traumatic event. I know how that slip randomly landed on my desk last week. I just had no idea it would mean so much this week.
I might leave it there a while. And I darn well hope it’s true.