My therapist says that I need to continue to blog, especially now that he's gone. She's been keeping up with it, despite the fact that I haven't been in to see her for eighteen months -- she says it shows promise. I correct her -- it showed progress; it's(more) all been ruined by that afternoon at Bart's.
What do I write about now? My writing was about our cases, about the adventures we had, about... him. I can't...
Writing is a way for me to remember, but I don't want to remember now. The betrayal -- the loss -- it's all something that I'd rather sweep under the mattress. Nothing happens to me now that he's gone, and I certainly don't want to write about what happened. My nightmares are bad enough as it is.
Maybe... maybe if I write *to* him, instead of *about* him. It could be as if nothing has changed, as if he's simply moping on the sofa in his dressing gown. Right... you can do this, John.