A therapist told me that I should write about what happened. To help get my feelings out about it. Maybe handle things better.

He gave me a journal to write in. A very pretty journal.

I started to write in it, but stopped because my life was consumed with driving to the hospital every day and sitting by his side.

Two years after the fall out…

I need to write about it. And I’m a better typer than a writer these days.

Don’t be confused by my writings. At this point, they are just bits and pieces and memories.

Maybe by the end of this experiment, it’ll come together. And maybe I’ll find a new love at the same time.