Drafts

I just spent 3 hours trying to finish some Christmas presents and watching In Treatment and all sorts of things came up.  One of the entries remains in draft form, which I have done since John died.  (Well, I might have written something and thought "this is trivial" or "you don't know what this is about yet," but usually the trivial ones end up being about something--I just haven't yet figured it out, and then I do.)

I'm aware of how much I don't say in my life.

When John died, I had dozens of e-mails to him in my drafts folder.  There are 25 unpublished drafts of this blog.

I was volunteering today, and I had some downtime, and I was reading this book Bobby recommended, and I started to cry.  In public.  Where kids could see me.  There was something so profoundly beautiful and vulnerable and "yes. That is me. This is why Bobby wanted me to read it. Because it is him too."

And yet sometimes, even though I consider this blog "therapy in public," even when I have a flash of realization, I'm scared to actually say what it is.  I'm censoring myself because this is no longer my anonymous little haven.  I will probably never see Bobby again as long as we both shall live.  But, there are things better left unsaid.  And part of my mourns my missing anonymity.