I don’t write often anymore, though I should. I just haven’t had the time or the motivation much as of late.
My grandmother passed away in the wee hours of Saturday morning, surrounded by her four children and her husband of nearly 41 years. I was in her bedroom, just the next room over from the living room where we and a hospice nurse had been tending to her since her release from the hospital just a couple of days earlier.
My mental health has been all over the map these last few weeks. I have had some incredible days in there alert, lively, cheerful, talkative, totally at peace with where my life has been and where it’s going. Unfortunately, that hasn’t been a frequent occurrence.
Honestly, to some extent, my first therapy session felt like a waste of time, at least on the surface. I arrived at 8:30 for a 9 am appointment, and due to some kind of computer issue/the office in general just being backed up, I didn’t meet my therapist, Miss Mary, until after 10. Once I was in her office, I started to feel better about my appointment, because in the waiting room I was thinking “why did I let Dallas talk me into this?”