I never buried him. He's inside. He can't hurt me anymore. Not directly. Yet he hurts me everyday, whenever I remember. I try not to.

I want to bury him as deep as possible. I want to move on with my life. It's been over a decade. And he's still not gone. Not from the inside.

Doctors gave me chemicals. Anxiety meds. Depression meds. They don't work. Some days, I white-knuckle it. Let the roller coaster take me, hoping to be let off soon.

Other days, the unfairness of life makes me lash out. At people around me. They don't deserve it. I feel bad after.

Today I remember. All morning I ruminate. I should have handled it better. I could have avoided it. What can I do now, to be okay with it?

My friends say how horrible it must have been. I don't need them to refresh my memories. They don't help.

Do I need to fill his grave with more layers of dirt? Even now I can still hear him. Feel his breath on my face.

Why did it have to be me? Why do they have to pity me? He can't hurt me anymore. He can't hurt me anymore.

I am a lifelong skeptic, nay, cynic, when it comes to Eastern medicine and healing practices.  I plead my upbringing; I was birthed and raised by a pair of rigidly positivist western science practitioners.  Neither was a 'traditional' science doer; my father was a science journalist, and my mother was a psychiatrist (and yes, before you ask, that's the one with the M.D.).  I spent the vast majority of my life to date comfortable with the set of options that Western, U.S.-culture-centric offered me.

i spent a good part of yesterday going through my old daylogs, for two reasons. Partly I wanted a list summarising them all (I used to have such a list on my homenode, but it got killed off due to my using unapproved Unicode characters, which destroyed evrything typed after them =[). The other thing is that I've wanted to