Day After

It's the day after Christmas, and again this year, like a fool, I thought I'd feel better if the day was just over.  But I don't feel better.  She's still dead.  I'm still here.  

I barely left my bed today, and never got dressed at all.  The tree will be a snap to put away since it had almost no decorations on it, so there's that.  Still, I struggled to fold and put away a basket of clean clothes.  I alternate between feeling like I'm going to throw up and wanting to throw the nearest thing at hand.

When I feel particularly low, the way I do today, I can't stand the sound of my own voice.  It makes me hate myself even more than I already do, so don't take it personally if I don't pick up the phone or if I cut our conversation short.   I'll text, but it's an effort.

All the therapy, all the meds, all the talks with friends and family...and I'll tell you a secret if you promise not to get mad at me:

I still feel responsible.  I'm beginning to suspect I always will.