My mother sent me a text telling me she thought the massacre was horrific.Īnd although all of that helps, none of it makes the fear go away. Even one of my white, straight, cis-gendered male friend (35 years my junior to boot) reached out to tell me he valued me as a person and a friend. Fighting despair is apparently exhausting.įriends have put up heart-warming posts on Facebook telling me that it's okay to grieve and feel bad, passing along celebrity reactions to the horror, wise and witty memes to distract, and doing what we ALWAYS do when attacked as a group bucking each other up. The heaviness I carry around makes me tired without having done anything. Two days can seem like a week, and hours can disappear in the blink of an eye. Time does strange things when you're grieving. There are the inevitable questions: Why there and then? Who was really behind it all? What made him do it? And while there are answers, they won't satisfy, because there are no answers good enough to make up for the sickening horror, pain, and devastation. It's been a hard couple of days, I won't lie.
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