Whenever I have a moment free to think all of this dad-related panic washes over me and then I can’t do anything and my asthma gets bad and every small thing seems absolutely devastating and I cry about not having pasta sauce or whatever and I feel really stupid. I’m trying not to attack myself/feel stupid and weirdly this is a way of doing it because it sort of forces me not to be ashamed about my grief, forces me to share it in ways I can’t otherwise and forces me to acknowledge the days when I do need help.
And writing through all of it makes more sense to me than anything, too. Writing can be really really helpful. Sometimes the prospect of writing in my diary is exhausting, not liberating, but here it’s better, a bit, sometimes.