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Talking about my feelings is something I hate doing. It upsets me because showing any kind of emotion growing up in foster care made you weak and a target to be bullied. I know that’s the wrong stance to take, but it’s what I know, and breaking old habits is harder than one would think.
I’m barely holding myself together. Scotch tape and Elmer’s glue. Poke too hard, and I’ll come apart.
He’s lying there, hooked up to every tube known to man. The steady beeping of the machines disturbs the utter quiet. The blinds are closed, the lights down. A death watch. That’s what this room reminds me of. When people are ready to die, they shroud the room in darkness.
I’m religious, very religious, but at times like this, even I have to wonder why God does what He does. Our role is not to question, but to accept, but sometimes that’s hard.
