d_scully | TM 136. 'What doesn't kill us..."

There are moments, lying in my bed at night, when my mind wanders back to certain events in my life. I lie there, restlessly fighting the sleep I so desperately need, forcing myself to face the things I cannot bear to ponder in the harsh light of day. There is a tremendous amount of grief, and on occasion there is an all-consuming guilt that rises in the form of a sharp, painful ache in my gut. Above all, there is fear. It is a fear borne of the knowledge that every ounce of grief and guilt, confusion and pain I feel, is conspiring to transform me into a woman I barely recognize.

It began when Missy was murdered. Unlike when I lost my father, there was never a true opportunity for me to grieve, the necessary mourning period encroached upon by a whirlwind of drama and conspiracy. I was forced to gather up my pain and put it away to be dealt with at a later time. The same occurred when I lost Emily, my first child. By the time I was forced to give up William, I knew that I would break if I opened the floodgates. I did cry with Fox, and together we mourned the loss of our son to a life in which we'd never be able to take part. I cried but I didn't allow myself to fully feel my loss and my grief for fear that it would kill me.

So, while I will display a demeanor to Fox that may say otherwise, no, I don't believe that whatever doesn't kill me makes me stronger. It's only made me harder.

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