I don’t even know where to begin, so I’ll start where I do each day: in a place of gratitude. And with news a few paragraphs down of changes to this journal’s scheduling. But first….
 
In the seven-plus weeks since last I posted a journal, I’ve received so much kindness and support from readers, Facebook visitors and Twitter followers alike, wishing me well and offering support as I headed off to seek wellness. So I want to start by thanking each and every person who took time to do that, and those who just kept me in their thoughts or heart for even a moment and held off writing as I asked. That certainly counts, too, and I’m filled to the brim with thanks for every word, thought and prayer.
 
Where else to begin? With July 10. Although I posted up until July 12 two journals I had ready to go, July 10 was the day that Rob took a trembling, frightened woman to begin a program that was to wipe the slate clean of a persistent and growing dependency I’d developed on my friend Grey Goose vodka (with its pal Pinot Gris wine) to help deal with feelings that I’d pounded down deep and hard, in order to keep functioning in our post-Lauren life. To write about. To talk about it.
 
As I said when I left here all those days ago, I stand by every word, every paragraph of my book, which is about love, loss and reclaiming joy. Those words came from my heart and soul and I sit here humbled and grateful for the resonance that they had with so very many.
 
But in helping people to deal with their grief – which I heard about in countless touching emails – my own was starting to become more active; the bubbling magma preparing to surface threatened to burn me alive in its lava form if I didn’t do something to address my deep emotions over what had happened to us, our plans and our dreams for the future.
 
It turns out I did have some fury down there, red and angry about the unfairness of life: how you can try to build up good karma, to do good and be good (well, mostly), but you can still be eviscerated with one powerful slash – one that takes you out at the knees and leaves you to bleed to death.
 
From the days of May 2015 when we were upended like a small boat of happy sailors suddenly finding themselves in the midst of a hurricane, I refused to let the grief take me under. I sought help and comfort in meditation and medication and in the consolation of a few close friends. But except for a very few that I let in, my existence – with and without Rob – was extremely isolated. And isolation is the perfect warm, dark and fetid fertilization for a previously dormant addiction to rise up and say, “Really, why not?”
 
On Thursday, I’ll share with you stories of treatment: 38 days that have changed my life, my outlook and my future. 
 
Yes, Thursday. Part of my commitment to taking better care of myself has to include cutting back on the frequency of my journals. I’ll be writing two days a week: Mondays and Thursdays, except weeks like this one where Monday is a holiday and it will be Tuesday and Thursday. I have to do this and I am so sorry if I have disappointed you after all of our years together, but I think it’s time. I hope you can understand, and thank you once again.
 
Happy New Year. The day after Labour Day is always a place for a fresh start and I have a few resolutions that I’ll be telling you about here, too, in days to come. But first, let’s get through this day of “back to” everything and I wish you a gentle Tuesday. We can do this. I’ll be back Thursday.