Wednesday, February 9, 2011


"February 9, 2010." A date written on every piece of paperwork and an answer given to every doctor who asks. And they all ask. They all need to know.

Every time I glance at the right corner of my computer screen or check my cell phone I am reminded of this day. I am reminded of the events leading up to this day and, more vividly, the events that followed.

I tried to play on my guitar, but had to put it down. Every song reminded me of something. My cover of "live like you're dying"(Kris Allen) clearly was not an option. "Wonderful world" by James Morrison was also not a good option ("I know that it's a wonderful world, but I can't feel it right now. I thought that I was doing well, but I just want to cry now"). The happier songs were even worse.

I can't read because when you read, you're thinking (at least that's what I teach my first graders). I got through half of a page yesterday and started thinking about other things. And then my mind wandered. And that is not good for me.

I can't focus on professional development because my babies are in the hands of a substitute.

So it looks like the best option is to waste away time by watching movies/TV and any other mindless tasks, hoping I can become so distracted that I don't remember last year; hoping I don't think about tomorrow, my appointment at Roswell to review everything.

My really-nervous-for-my-appointment song to play on guitar/sing is "Just breathe" (Anna Nalick)-but I'm saving that one for February 10th.

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