Is it even worth trying?

Trying to pull all of this together: the resurgence of the loss, the shock of the grief, the shame at the loss in the face of the grief, the sheer overwhelmingness of it all. The hundred little things that run through your head that you'll never get to say, that you never got around to saying. Such a cliche - not the gut-wrench of movies, but more of an ache that waxes and wanes.

To have lost a job, my lover and my father in the space of seven months just seems ridiculous, like something out of a fever dream. I can't quite believe it's actually happening, has happened, to me.

There is a connection, at least one, here; the humming, quivering constant in my life: the disease. The self-doubt, the emptiness of the loss, the self-accusatory quality of the grief, the shame at my own reactions, the inability to simply feel without judging myself, the cascade of emotion that overwhelms me in the middle of the day: all gifts of the disease. Well, some of them are normal, I'm sure, but the particular valence they have, the luminescence they have for me right now, are a little gift. I'm fighting it, much better than I'd have thought possible even a few months ago, but really, this seems cosmically cruel and comical. I mean, on a soap opera, OK, but really...enough.

But maybe that's just the typical self-absorption of the disease... Fun, isn't it?

What would you say, Dad? Just do my best. Alright. I miss you.