Do I Have To Forget?

Dear Diary (or should I call you "Therapist Lite"?),

I don't know what to do with myself anymore. You see, I've got this sneaky suspicion that as long as I'm busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest, I'm somewhat alright. Life doesn't seem like a twisted version of "Groundhog Day." But today, diary, I had a lightbulb moment – and not the kind that helps you find your lost socks. 

It's when I'm swamped with things to do, that I forget. I forget about my wife, my kids... and it feels like I'm betraying a sacred club. The 'I-remember-my-family' club. It's gut-wrenching, knowing that my peace comes at the price of amnesia about the people I cherish. What's up with that? Is that what I need to do? Just forget?

But here's the thing, diary. I was a dad, a damn good one. I was there, through every sneeze, cough, and monster-under-the-bed crisis. I never bolted. Sure, I wasn't given the manual on 'Family Love 101'. My education was more in the 'Work Till You Drop' department. But hey, I gave it my all.

Now, classes are over, and I'm left with my thoughts, which, let's be honest, are as organized as a soup sandwich. I'm doing my best, sticking to my DBT skills like they're my lifeline. But which one of these flashcards in my hand, decorated with more colors than a tie-dye shirt, will teach me how to mend a shattered heart? Which one has the secret sauce for feeling loved, missed, or even just a simple "Hey, you're alright, Curtis."

The scary part? I don't need to spiral out of control to mull over these thoughts. They pop up more often than ads on a free app, about three or four times a week.

So, diary, that's where I'm at. A regular Picasso of emotional chaos. But I'll keep pushing, like a bulldozer in a china shop. Maybe one day, I'll find the right flashcard. Or, who knows, maybe I'll just learn to juggle them instead.

Until next time,

Curtis, the (occasionally forgetful) Family Man and Professional Busy Bee