modify_evolution
Day 16- Don't Tell Me This Is Home
A friend of mine told me about a meditation technique/thought exercise he does sometimes, where he imagines a younger version of himself sitting next to him, and has a conversation with him. For him, it's kind of uplifting. Like whenever he feels like he's not good enough, or doing enough, this small version of himself points out all the things he's done since he was that age.
It hurts to imagine a younger version of me. Or worse, a younger version of Casey. I just want to protect them and tell them to never grow up. To just love each other and be young forever. Because they aren't going to grow up together the way they thought, and they aren't going to live next door to each other and raise each other's children, and it will never get better for them than what it was then.
Part of me crumpled and died when I saw her dead body. It will always be there in that room. Everything before that moment is a different life completely. I know how to move forward without her, and I've started doing it, but I don't want to. It hurts too much. I can only do it by separating myself in my head into who I was before cancer, and who I am after. I have to be two separate people, and I have to be able to leave the other me alone somewhere without bringing her with me all the time. If I didn't, I'd never stop crying.
Day 16- Don't Tell Me This Is Home
A friend of mine told me about a meditation technique/thought exercise he does sometimes, where he imagines a younger version of himself sitting next to him, and has a conversation with him. For him, it's kind of uplifting. Like whenever he feels like he's not good enough, or doing enough, this small version of himself points out all the things he's done since he was that age.
It hurts to imagine a younger version of me. Or worse, a younger version of Casey. I just want to protect them and tell them to never grow up. To just love each other and be young forever. Because they aren't going to grow up together the way they thought, and they aren't going to live next door to each other and raise each other's children, and it will never get better for them than what it was then.
Part of me crumpled and died when I saw her dead body. It will always be there in that room. Everything before that moment is a different life completely. I know how to move forward without her, and I've started doing it, but I don't want to. It hurts too much. I can only do it by separating myself in my head into who I was before cancer, and who I am after. I have to be two separate people, and I have to be able to leave the other me alone somewhere without bringing her with me all the time. If I didn't, I'd never stop crying.