I got accepted into a MFA program(s).

It seems like a century since I wrote a blog on here. Though I guess that is what real grief does. It pulls the days like putty and makes them seem like they are stretching through time. Each hour apart from the people you love the most, well, it almost feels infinite. 

Every night, around the same time, I become overwhelmed with sadness. I do a good job, most of the day. Keeping it at bay. But every night at 3am, I feel this sadness well up inside of me. I try to keep the tears down and in but they just come faster. Then I cry. I cry for hours and hours until I fall asleep. I talk to the darkness and tell my Dad to come back, I tell Matt to come back, I ask them why they left me all alone. 

In an attempt to better myself, to make something of my grief, about a week ago I applied to a bunch of MFA programs for creative writing. It was my minor in college and I took enough classes that if it was an official major, I could have double majored in it. I have always loved it, my dad always supported it, and it was in a fiction workshop when I first met Matt. Matt had just graduated with his MFA when he passed, he also was an amazing writer, our mutual friend Couri posted a blog linking to all his published fiction: here. 

I wanted the whole time to call my father and tell him about how I applied to all these universities. 

I looked at my phone for a split second when I submitted the second portfolio for review. 

Then I remembered - you can't call the dead. 

After applying for a few MFA programs, I relaxed. 

The next night I heard back from a program director. He loved my work and extended an invitation to the program. He said my writing was exactly what he wanted in the program, that I had graduate level writing, that my stories were wonderful. 

My heart lit up and again I reached for my phone to call my dad. 

I couldn't call my dad, so I called Nicole instead. 

I called my mom.

I called a lot of people. 

But nothing made it feel real. 

I wanted to tell my father. 

I got accepted into every MFA program I applied to. 

Which, I hear, is quite an achievement. I am happy about this but part of me feels like it is a hollow achievement because my dad isn't here to be proud of me. 

I told my mom I wanted to get my MFA because Matt had obtained his just before he passed. He was a wonderful writer, professor, and man. I was still alive and if I could make a mark even half the size that he did - then it would all be worth it in the end. 

This whole sick suessical life machine might never make sense. I may always end up beaten down and bruised by life but because I have known and loved people like Matt and my father, it will all have been worth it in the end.