I often get the feeling that telling people about Liane and the way I tell people about Liane is inherently flawed. I find myself using the same words, the same expressions and the same intonation. It’s like a strange autopilot that gives me simplicity (and maybe protection?) and offers the person I’m talking to the opportunities to interject appropriately. It seems like I’m involved in some sort of societal dance, the rhythm of which I’m still learning and the aim of which I am unsure.
Sometimes when the same phrases come out I feel a sense of detachment and that’s hard. I wonder if my heart is in it or if I’m on cruise control. Is it that the person I’m talking to won’t get it? Is it that my guard is up? Am I sick of it all? All these difficult questions rattle around my brain as I search for new ways to talk about the love I have lost and the life that was taken away.
My brain overthinks. My heart suffers.