I would like to fold up inside myself just for a little while...make myself small and unimportant, unworthy of notice to grief or worry or this growing disgust with my job. I just want to sink away for a little while.... Though I'd settle for the ability to write. Every time I think about really putting words to all this, I freeze. For so long my dad has been my first reader; I can't write without thinking about how he won't be able to read it. Even if it's something I'd never want to show him.

What's funny is that my mom is writing like crazy. That's how she's coping---if you can call it coping---and it makes me laugh because my dad would approve, journal-keeping being a psychologically sound therapy. I'm sure I'll get there---he'd be so angry if I stopped writing because of this---but in the meantime, I don't know quite what to do with myself. Other than wish I were small. And try not to think myself silly for wanting to find meaning in Angela and Hodgins naming their son Michael on Bones.