Brain marginally less cluttered today. Progress (of a sort) is being made. Thank you, God.
This past week sucked, but I've decided (or am trying to decide?) that maybe, just maybe, it's not a case of my getting worse, regressing, sliding back into the muck. PERHAPS I'm just letting go of the act of hiding the mess. Maybe if it all comes to the surface, the ugliness and pain and hurt will finally begin to leach away. And Christian has been pushing me pretty hard. ["Stretching," he euphemistically calls it :-).] And I suppose I haven't broken (at least not entirely) yet. I feel empty, and nauseous, but have managed to get the words "I love you" past my defenses a couple of times, and it hasn't killed me. I can't go home, and that hasn't killed me either. Does that mean there's hope?
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