I feel like I should be writing everything down. Instead, I've been carefully avoiding keeping any record of the incident.

I am pulling my hair again. Just a little, though.

Sometimes saying nothing says everything, though if my intent is to communicate everything, I'm leaving a big margin of error to be misinterpreted as having nothing to say.

I like to think I've gone through all of the stages of grief, but I feel like I've been managing someone else's life rather than living my own. This comfortable, highly productive detachment could just be proof that my stubbornness is the strongest part of my coping mechanism, or it could be a shield of denial still keeping me from fully understanding, fulling accepting what happened.

Here we go.