Now that I\'m not hiding any emotions, I\'m feeling better. My anxiety\'s better anyway. Because I\'m not lashing out trying to figure out what I\'m upset about.

Now I know. And there\'s nothing I can do about it and that sucks. And I kind of feel like my heart is ripped open, and it hurts, yeah, but it\'s more of an ache, but I feel literally I can FEEL the blood pumping out of my open chest. It\'s a strange sensation.

I miss my friend so much. And it\'s so weird, because I feel like I shouldn\'t miss him this much, but I do. I guess I just don\'t want to believe he is dead because I feel like if someone who was so close with God, someone who had that much comfort and solace in something so strong like religion, if they can\'t find hope, I don\'t feel like i can either. 

I remembered today, very suddenly, the last time I had seen him. I was thinking that it had been over a year ago, but it had really been much more recent than that when he came into my workplace. That memory hit me very hard and very suddenly today. It makes me want to do all sorts of weird things like find the receipt of his purchase or purchase the same CD he bought, and hold those things very close. But I know that wouldn\'t give me any kind of peace.

I\'m starting to think I\'ll have to visit him again, but I feel…. ashamed to ask someone to take me. I don\'t drive, and the only people I would let take me would be my husband or my grandmother. My husband is really the only person who knows how much his death really hurt me, so I would really want him to take me, but at the same time I don\'t want to sound crazy, asking to go to the cemetery. "Hey it\'s our day off, but instead of going to the mall or watching a movie, I thought we\'d go see where my friend is buried!" 

I have never felt more crazy in my life. Last night, I got myself to go to sleep by thinking of what a therapist might tell me. I decided he would tell me to look at how upset people get when someone famous, who they may have never even been anywhere near, passes away. And in my imaginary conversation, I would say well, he wasn\'t impacting the world. And the therapist would say, "Oh… I guess not…" and I would say wait, no. He was. He was living and breathing and making music and telling people about the things he believe in and going to school and creating and breathing. And I have every right to miss all those things that he was doing, even if I wasn\'t experiencing them as much as other people. 

In the end, I am having to give my self permission to mourn this. But mostly, I just feel stupid, and a whole lot more crazy. Sometimes, I think I\'ll get locked up in the nuthouse, and I\'m scared.