Twelve Pages and Counting

There is something therapeutic about writing things down on paper.

I don't know what it is, but the way words go from your brain, down to your finger tips, and onto the paper is magical.

I love writing with a good pen. A pen with ink that flows just right (not too runny so that it smudges, not so dry that it scratches).

I've been doing a lot of writing in my journal lately. Not as much as I'd like. I wish that I could write for hours, but I can't for several reasons. One, my hand gets tired after an hour or so. Two, I just have not had time.

Some people may say, "Well, Silly, how about you just type everything up?"

Nope. It's not the same as writing it down. Typing isn't nearly as formal, and it seems so impersonal.

I have written twelve pages, and I still have probably a hundred to go.

What am I writing about?

I'm writing about a man who left this earthly life on July 29 of this year. I'm writing about all of the significant events that have occurred since then. I'm writing down every sweet text message, email, conversation that I can remember. I'm writing down any and every memory that I have of my dad. Then, when I'm missing him and I'm in a dark place, I can go back and read about all the nice things people said and did, about the good times we had with him, and about the hope that I have right now for the future. Right now, I'm at twelve pages, and I've only covered the first twenty four hours...

Dad suffered from depression his entire life. He went through a lot hell growing up-those precious, critical, first few years of his life he was abused and neglected (among other things). No wonder he had so many problems. I only wish that I had understood Dad's physical and mental pain while he was here. Depression is like cancer or any other serious illness, but no one seems to get it. Everyone thinks (I did too for a time, until now) depression is a choice-that people can and should just take a pill and get over it. However, it's not that easy. Sometime the depression goes into remission, just like cancer. You see a ray of hope and you feel like everything is fine. Then (sometimes) it comes back, and takes all the light away. Depression ended up taking the light of life out of my Dad.

Someone brought over Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban with two pages doggy eared. This person has suffered from depression and felt that J.K. Rowlings words describing Dementors, described depression perfectly...

"Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk this earth. 

They infest the darkest, filthiest places, they glory in decay and despair, 

they drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them. 

Even Muggles feel their presence, though they can't see them. 

Get too near a dementor and every good feeling, 

every happy memory will be sucked out of you.

 If it can, the dementor will feed on you long enough to reduce you to something like itself... soul-less and evil. 

You'll be left with nothing but the worst experiences of your life. 

And the worst that happened to you, [Dad], is enough to make anyone fall off their broom. 

You have nothing to feel ashamed of." (p.187)

My poor dad.

I have been "incredibly strong" through the past two and a half weeks. That's what they tell me anyway. But in quiet moments, when I'm alone, I feel like everything is crashing down around me. Those moments are quick-just a few short seconds and then I'm OK again. I know that the only reason I have been strong is because of those of you offering up prayers to our love Father in Heaven in behalf of me and my family. We have been completely overwhelmed by the amount of love and support (both physical and emotional) that has been poured out over us. This entire experience has been extremely bitter, but equally sweet. Things are definitely looking up, despite the long road of "moving on" ahead of us.

Thank you all for everything you have done, and no doubt will continue to do, for my family.
XOXO
Tori