I Could Have, but Didn't

I’ve been on the fence about sharing this, because it’s about the death of a stranger. I needed to write it, because writing is how I process things, and can be cathartic, but does that mean it needs to be shared? There’s just so much trauma-writing out there, and sometimes it seems almost gratuitous, and sometimes I feel like it’s gratifying to read it, like some base part of me, that part of me who looks—even though I tell her not to—when I see a car accident, is taking over, is winning. Sometimes maybe it’s better not to look.

Anyhow, I hope that this doesn’t feel that way to read; I think I’m too close to it to make a fair assessment.