How do we heal our souls when they are ripped apart and set on fire?  We sit in the smoldering ashes and feel powerless and incompetent because no one else we know could ever hurt this much.

People will gather for morning coffee or chat as they power up their computers on Monday, talking about exciting Saturdays and Sundays and we will pretend.  We will find one good thing and exaggerate it so as not to lie to them but to hide the fact that our souls are raw and bleeding.

They would never understand.

Emotional pain is shameful unless someone dies or there is some other tragedy that legitimizes it.  Nobody wants to know that we took a perfectly good weekend, fucked it up, and can’t even remember when and how it all began to unwind.

If we dare do anything but smile and answer, “Good!” to the how-was-your-weekend question, we see the panic on their faces and they shift their weight uncomfortably and, um, have a lot of work to get started on.

There you stand with your pants down, exposed and ashamed, and you silently vow never ever to veer off the acceptable Monday morning script again.

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