People want me to talk about my dead husband and it’s really hard. I have so much going on inside that I’m still amazed I was able to write something at the four month mark. At 10 months, I’m even more confused and jumbled, so I don’t even bother attempting. Sometimes I get a sentence, a phrase, a word that I think I should jot down but depression makes me lazy and zombielike so I try my best to file that stuff mentally. I’m sure some background is needed, so here goes: my husband was killed by a suicide bomber last May in Afghanistan. He was 28 and all I knew for a decade. He saved my life and was the best in each and every way, and I’m not just saying that because he was my husband; ’tis the truth.
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