She’s fine. Really, she is.
A Random Entry From Her Long-Ago Journal
A Day in March in Some Other Year
Her therapist seemed quite pleased with herself. She had just made a brilliant comparison: Wasn’t her ripping apart and renovating the ugly, retro (but not in a good way) entryway she’d lived with the past five years a symbolic nod to the door she had (finally!) closed on their relationship?
And what about how she’s finding herself awake and out of bed before the alarm clock can send jolting sound waves through her head? Wasn’t it just a few months ago she’d been describing how much of a struggle it was to get out of bed? How the covers were too heavy to move out from under? How she wanted to stay hidden under them forever?
But now she’s up and walking the dog around the neighborhood at sunrise, even on weekends.
Somehow, it’s like that clichéd weight people talk about has been lifted from her shoulders.
Of course, she had to give the therapist her due. She was right.
Huh.
She also knew this moment was where they were headed almost as soon as it had all started. She had been the one to open the door in the first place. What if she’d never listened to the knocking? What If she’d locked the door tighter and never let her…
