writing to survive
. . . only the retelling counts

Almost

I am done. My last class of the semester is o-v-e-r.

So why don’t I feel exhilarated? Relieved? Instead, I feel like I am doing everything wrong, and I will never know how to do it right. Everything is mixed up inside. I feel exposed. I feel like a fraud. I feel alone.

Maybe it’s tiredness (late night/early morning). Or the sick husband (stomach bug). Or the death of one of my husband’s friends, something that has brought the whole family down (sorry,
Grace). Or maybe I am letting that “motivating” anxiety run rampant now that I no longer have to contain it.

But mostly, I am feeling
alone.

Or I was, until my (recovering) husband left his sick bed to sit beside me. We talked about the friend and the unfairness of life. We discussed my insecurities, how hard this semester has been, and how far I have come.

If I allow myself, I can almost believe it.

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