I woke up horribly sad this morning.
I fell asleep to a book based on the Syrian civil war and I am hoping that doesn’t have anything to do with it, but it is a griping book that showcases different sides of war and how PTSD was portrayed in this book felt tragic and familiar.
This morning I was thinking about my mom and her losing her mom.  I was 9 months old when she died and for some reason that hit me harder than it has in the past. It made my childhood make more sense.  My mom’s best friend her whole life died when I was a baby and how she coped with that feels exactly how I wish I could.  My mother had children that could help. She had a husband that took care of her financially. I am doubtful he was emotionally there for her, but at least she didn’t have to get up every morning and figure out what to wear to work and how to talk to people with kindness when inside she was crying and fighting to breathe.