I used to think that my consciously careful resistance to doing this was me stubbornly holding on. A refusal to let go of all those shed tears, after all I'm pretty sure I was crying for three straight years. If my tear ducts could've gone on strike, they would've. But it took the death of a presence to remind me, it wasn't all hard-headed Cancerian wallowing that made me keep those memories alive. I used to think that "arriving" at life or coming out "finished" was about getting it together. That the all-access pass came when you scored the trifecta of career/wealth, love/romance and family/friends. That one "becomes" when you join all the shiny, happy people you see in ads everyday, white teeth flashing even and perfect, bodies lithe engaged in that flawless life.
I had no idea. And it took a damn while to forgive myself for not knowing that.