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relented. I agreed to reach out to three of Jacob’s organ recipients. I had no idea which ones I would end up corresponding with. I made no specific agreements about that and I don’t think my family really cared which recipients I ended up picking. They were just happy that I was going to attempt to move forward with my mourning process. They see it as an opportunity to move forward. I see it as a waste of time, money, and a test of just how well I can act. Their theory is that perhaps meeting the people who benefitted from my husband’s death will somehow bring me comfort. I can’t stand the idea of it. No amount of “good” could ever make that night any less of a world-altering cataclysm in my mind.
    I lost my husband. Bottom line.
    There ’s no way to spin that. There’s no other truth. Jake’s death is the singular truth that was born that night. In my opinion, there’s no other synopsis of the whole thing. He died and a bunch of other shit happened in response to his death. He died, other people got a chance to live, and I was left to stand awkwardly in the corner at every holiday, birthday, wedding, and reunion following it. What else is there? 
    My inner circle’s theory on things don’t seem to add up anyway. They want me to move on with grieving by meeting some people who I hate simply because they exist and Jake doesn’t.
    Let me reiterate: they want to send their emotionally unstable family member to meet some strangers who she feels an irrational hatred towards.
    I may come by my insanity honestly .
    How am I suppose d to let go of Jake if there are pieces of him still out there, living on in some perfect stranger?
    Of course, I love my family , and even through my grief and self-diagnosed insanity, I want to make them happy. And I want them to stop breathing down my fucking back every day.
    Despite how I felt and still feel, I promised I would try out their theory. I didn’t say how hard I would try. I decided that the recipients I would choose would be the first three I heard back from. I agreed to meet them, see that they were well and living their lives, and then I would return to my misery and the simple fact that there’s no help out there for me. I’m where I’m at and I had better get comfortable, because this is my life. This is what it has become. I’m okay with it. My family are the ones who need to get over shit.
    The group therapy sessions were an epic failure. I won’t take the blame for that though.
    Okay , maybe some blame.
    Apparently, hostile outbursts are frowned upon in therapy. But I couldn’t stand another minute of that therapist talking about how the circle of life was such a beautiful thing and learning to love that circle would help ease the pain of losing a loved one. Fuck the fucking circle. Fifteen minutes into the first session, I jumped up from my chair, sending it flying backward, and pointed my finger at Dr. Sunshine and Wildflowers. I may have tossed out a few insults and told him that this circle of life theory is a bunch of bullshit and his fee for said bullshit is practically highway robbery, but that’s hardly criminal of me. Anyone in my position and mindset would have done the same.
    I stormed out before security was called and much to my surprise, blowing o ff some steam felt good. I had gotten into my car in the parking lot and banged my fists on the steering wheel until my hands ached. I gritted my teeth hard and growled under my breath until the rage didn’t feel so much bigger than me.
    S o maybe the group therapy wasn’t a total fail after all, though it may have fueled my rage a tad. Acting like an irrational ass and screaming at people gave me a little relief. My entire body had been feeling like a pressurized holding tank of fury. Bleeding off a bit of that steam felt nice, addictive even. I started doing it more frequently. I’ve been an inconsolable loose cannon for the better part of two years and I can’t even say with any amount of