I’ve been stuck, dysfunctional this entire month since the 6th.

It seems all I can do, when I’m not at work, is sleep and cry, sleep and cry.  I’m at a friend’s house writing this, it took a monumental effort to get myself up and out the door to get here.

Everything seems so surreal, as if I’m dreaming.

As though I’m wandering through the world’s longest nightmare.  I’m not so sure when the nightmare began.  Did it begin back in July of 2002, when my Dad fell ill and I’ve been dreaming ever since?

A part of me, of course, fervently wishes it to be so, that Glen will shake me awake and take me into his arms and none of the past 12 years at all will have happened.  My Dad will be alive and well, he’ll call me tomorrow to make plans for our weekly poker game on Saturday night.  Glen will be healthy and happy, looking forward to visiting the kids.  Kristy will be calling me so we could make plans to go skeet shooting next Thursday.  And my brother, Wally, he’ll be fine too.  Laughing at his sister, Uncle Buck, as he jokingly called me, poking fun at me for having such an active imagination.

And when I really do wake up, all I can do is cry and try to go back to sleep.  Because if I really allow myself to wake up, I can no longer lie to myself and I have to face the truth.

This is not a dream.

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