Today I realized that I don't think about her every day anymore.

Which, I must admit, feels a bit strange - and even weirder when put in writing. It's not like I regret this; no, on the contrary, there's no way you can consider not having a massive weight pushing down on your chest every morning when you wake up a bad thing.

But does this mean that I'm finally dealing with this in a good and healthy way? Just like I said I'd try? I don't know.

Perhaps it just means that I've gotten better at not thinking about it in general, at blocking my mind from wandering off in those directions.

Or perhaps I'm just getting better at lying to myself; lying to you, my loyal reader(s), my friends and my family. The ones that insist that I'll be fine, that I shouldn't worry, that things can only get better.

One thing I do know, though, is that this evening was hard.