And still, life goes on.

I get brief moments, like the one at left, sitting in the hallway at Twelfth Night, where it suddenly all comes together, the clouds part, and rays of light strike me...

Or Miriam gets a good photo of me. :-)


I've been working at trying to be busy, trying to see friends, and do stuff that gets me out of the house. Trying not to mope. Telling myself that I can get over this, and then it won't hurt so much.

Lies never hurt so much as when they're to yourself.

I finally realized a couple of weeks ago that no, I'm not ok. Yeah, I've hit that point where I'm angry, but it's like I'm still bleeding inside, and no amount of band-aid will fix that, even if they are Avengers band-aids.

I think of all of it, the initial shock, bereavement, and sense of betrayal- all of it pales in comparison to that huge, gaping hole in the middle of my life: I've lost my best friend. I no longer have that every day or two talk, the chance to sill emotions, to share things I've seen or thought, to complain, to express worry and say "What do I do? I don't know what to do!" The impulse, dozens of times a day, to share something with him, keeps the wound raw and oozing.

So I talked with Rebecca, and we're going to up my anti-depressant, just a bit, just to get me over the hump. Hopefully spring will help too.

However, my lungs are doing unhappy things again, and I'm back on prednisone. And hoping that Dr Fraley can get this under control before it gets worse. Lung stuff can be terrifying.

Here's to hoping that April is better.