Therapy.

I've made progress. My favorite picture that I got from Grandma's house is now, proudly hung in my bedroom. It only took me 3 months to do it. Better late than never, right?  Everytime I make an attempt at either going through things or making changes, I have a hard time. Sometimes, I wonder is there a time when this just doesn't happen anymore. Sometimes I think I could have been a therapist, since I do so much self analalyzing. I have gone through a hamper, that had clean clothes...rewind four years ago. My first roomate took it upon herself to go through a garbage bag full of clothes that I had stored in a spare bedroom. I didn't get upset, I knew that she was trying to help. But the way I coped was to push away and close the door.  And as I sat in my room and looked at the picture that I finally put up...I realised one reason that I am really slow at making changes or going through some of my parents things, is that I feel its a personal therapy session everytime I do. As the years go by, I realise there are things that I  do that remind me of my mom...somethings that I swore I wouldn't do. Not me, no way. But here I am...still here..still have things to do and go through. I cry...and have a long talk with a best friend..and dust myself off. Because tomorrow is a new day. There is a poem that I shared with someone who had lost a daughter and the poem is about how you spend your dash. The little line between your birth and your death. For that little line represents all the time that matters most.  Maybe someday my room will be rid of all the stuff...and maybe not. But its my time..and I will tackle when I'm ready. And Mom? You were right.