Today I talked about it. Today I let someone else feel the pain, I let another person bear the weight. I let the waves crash over me and leave me lighter in their wake. Today I cried in front of several co-workers. Today was a good day.

It began when SE asked how my vacation was. It was wonderful, except for the shock of seeing my mother's dilapidated body consume the couch for hours on end. I tried to focus on the relaxing BBQ I had with my friends and the shopping my mother and I did together, but when she asked how my mother was doing, a pregnant pause couldn't help but be delivered.

"She's not well," I began, and it flowed from there. I told her everything. Here we go again, I thought. Another bout of crying, more explaining. But instead of an unsure silence, I was met with warm words and understanding.

"I feel like you're carrying something dark around with you," she said.

Once that statement was brought to light, it became easy to divulge everything I've been feeling over the last few months. The fear, the anger, the isolation, the morbid thought of wishing this could just all be over. The pain is constant; it rips away at my insides. It hides momentarily, but takes center stage when my mind can find nothing else to dwell on. The moments before I fall asleep are the worst.

I felt rather stupid crying in front of SE. I must look ugly when I cry, I thought. But she placed an arm around me and that morphed into a hug. It was a beautiful, tender moment. As she touched me I could sense some of my pain slipping away. I was letting it go. I was setting it free instead of hoisting it above my shoulders and pretending I wasn't tired. The waves were washing over me, just like Stephen said they would.

After my episode we got out of the car and shot our story, then returned to the station. I had decided to talk to Stephen since he'd lost his first wife to breast cancer. He'd surely understand. And he did. He hugged me, too. Human touch is such a powerful force. Again, I let him feel the blackest, coldest depths of my heart. He recounted his experience; he walked me through the steps of his grief. Knowing someone had been there before, knowing someone had walked the same path I had was exactly what I needed to hear. By the end of our impromptu therapy session I felt lighter than before. Relieved. Hopeful.

Stephen also said something about my father that I had never considered: maybe he was so distant because he needed to protect himself. My father does not get a break. He lives with my mother and her disease day in and day out. He doesn't take a plane home to South Carolina; he doesn't get to escape. In order for him to maintain some sanity he needs to find a safe place, and for him that's his routine. No one can touch him there, not even my mother's mortality.

So that's it for today. God, or whoever's up there, seems to be putting people in my life who can handle these sorts of things. I need to find God. I need to find him because I cannot reason with this situation any longer. There is no logic, and the thought that there is nothing better waiting for my mother after she takes her final breath is crushing. Knowing that this life is all there is, that isn't good enough. I have spent years brushing aside religion because I could always find a reason why it wasn't true. Evolution, science, whatever. But these moments I'm living are why people turn to something so enigmatic. We as humans need to know that despite cruelest of circumstances, it will all be okay.