But I don't feel different. I smile. I laugh. I go to the gym. I sweat. My muscles hurt. I listen to the iPod and sing. I still feel refreshed when the sky is blue and the air is crispy. I bitch about work and my boss. I even play Beatles Rock Band.
And I feel guilty for all of these things.
Monday was the worst. It was the first time many of my co-workers had seen me since the ordeal started. When they asked me how I was doing (complete with pity face), I smiled and said that I was "hanging in there." I felt like a traitor. Shouldn't I have been in tears? Unable to function? I felt like I didn't deserve to have had off all week. Shouldn't I have had to prove that I was so wrenched with grief that I couldn't drive? Tuesday wasn't much better. I went to class for the first time in several weeks, and our professor had shared with everyone what was happening in my life. A couple of them got me cards. One of them brought me a box of chocolates. I felt like an impostor.
I know I shouldn't feel guilty for being able to hold my shit together and continue on with my life without collapsing. But I do.