She hurled the book across the room.  The pages flapping, it hit the wall and slid down to the floor.  She had run out of patience with Joseph Campbell and his myths.  After starting the same paragraph over several times, an anxious feeling came over her.  The result was the flinging of the paperback.
     She rubbed her eyes and stretched out across the bed.  She rolled over on her stomach.  She bunched the pillow up under her chin.  Her lips quivered.  Tears began to well up and spill over on to her cheeks.  A whimper escaped from her mouth, signaling a full session of mourning.  Burying her face into the pillow, her whole body shook with her sobs.
 It had been nine weeks since he left.  The pain had subsided some, but the grief remained.  At first she had tried to mask the heartache with painkillers.  She tried replacing thoughts of him with “feel good” situations.  She even snapped herself with a rubber band she wore on her wrist whenever he made an appearance in her mind.  That was too often.  Finally, she came to terms with the fact that she had to give in and trust the grieving process.  When the tears came, she let them flow.  They did help.  They cleansed her soul.  They expressed what her heart felt.
     In a crowded house it was hard to find a place to weep.  Privacy was at a premium.  She found solace locked in the bathroom with the water running in the tub.  Slipping into a bath, she would again, invite her tears to mingle with the bubbles.  Her skin red from hot water, her eyes puffy and red from crying made her reflection in the faucet look pitiful.  As she looked at the distorted image, she managed a compassionate smile.  “That which does not kill us, makes us stronger” she told the swollen face.  She took a deep breath and let the air out in a loud sigh.  Another mourning session was completed.
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
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