I did it.

I didn’t like it, but I did. I signed up.

Grief. Therapy.

I didn’t want to. No. I REALLY didn’t want to.

I’m supposed to sit around in a circle and say “Hi, my name is Tahsha and I’m a widow? Then talk about my feelings to a bunch of strangers? bleck. No thanks.

I did it for Leah. She gets to go to her own class where they sing songs, color, and play. She’ll be with other four year olds who have had parents or siblings die.

I’m hoping that I’ll have people I can turn to to help me understand her and what I need to do for her.

What am I supposed to do when she sticks her hands on her hips and tells me “I’m not sad about Daddy. I don’t miss him.” What the freak am I supposed to do with that? What am I supposed to do when she asks me, “Am I supposed to be sad about Daddy? Am I supposed to miss him?” Poor little girl. She’s so confused. She doesn’t quite know how she feels. She knows she isn’t crying a lot like me or Grandma. So I think she interprets that as to: “I guess I’m not sad.” I just don’t know how to approach it. I want to help her. I don’t want to say or do things that will make it worse.

So, I’m hoping that by going to this center, it will help her and help me learn how to help her.

And, I guess, somewhere deep down I know that this will be a good thing for me too.

But right now, I really don’t want to go.