This story has been in the writing for a year. I tried getting it out in different classes, but it took the feminine genius of Cigdem and Jena of The Inky Path to create the safe place to write from the heart. And now I have the courage to share my journey. If you have a story – and we all do – write it. If folks don’t get it, that is not on you. Write for you, write your heart out.
“You’re strangling me.”
“Not now, please not now” I begged the bewildered voice in my head.
Standing in back of the video camera, I focused on the live feed of the conference speaker. The charm of the Victorian hotel where we were filming stopped at the conference room. The air was musty and smelled of humid August and the absence of windows was creating a suffocating atmosphere of dull, flat light.
“You promised we would write our truth, that we wouldn’t write to please other people. You are betraying us.” Tears streaked down my face as I fiddled with the camera focus, she was right, I was traitorous. Wiping away my tears, I wrangled my wayward mind back to the task of monitoring the camera.
I had not intended to bring the conflict raging inside me to work, but the voice in my head was insistent and defensive, I could feel her anger. My head was spinning from the onslaught of information I had received at a blogging conference I had attended earlier in the summer. My experience of the conference was a gushing fire hydrant of data. I was floundering in a confusing sea of voices telling me how to attract readers, how to build a platform, how to monetize my blog; I was saturated.
I am empathic and I could feel the discomfort of many people when they asked what my blog was about. Child death is a conversation stopper and made for awkward moments. Wearing my mask that I present to the world, I smiled and was engaging, but I was not present. I could feel myself shutting down. My authentic self went deep into hiding. I came home overflowing with doubt and filled with disgust at my early writing. Embarrassed with the obvious structural short-comings and grammatical errors, my early grief was now something that spurred revilement in me.
Telling myself that my grief was not relevant, that people didn’t want torturous words of sorrow, that they wanted happy stories, stories that were funny and light in spirit; I stopped writing. The torrent of words built up behind my eyes, and begged to be written, to be thrown against a page where they would weave their story. Hardening my heart, I ignored their plea to be given life.
The unwritten words coalesce into a formidable voice, no longer bewildered and hurt. Howling, the voice of my grief paces within my body like a she-wolf separated from her pup. She interrupts my thoughts, distracts me from my work, and is relentless in her drive to be heard. She grows strong, the energy it takes to keep a stranglehold on her words is draining.
We meet in the mirror, in silence. She is fierce and primal, she has held death, she has buried her child. She is ancient and wise, she can sense a presence in the wind. She is other, yet familiar to me. Our eyes lock.
I am she. Opening clenched fists, I surrender. I surrender to this frightening, glorious, and raw life force that is the voice of my grief.
Sinking deeper into union, understanding wings in like feathers brushing my face. Embracing the voice of my grief unleashes the love that still lives for my child. A love that courses through my veins like blood, a creative, demanding love that overflows the banks of my broken heart.
Entwined, at peace, I write.
again. you have spoken my heart. reading the last three paragraphs I was undone. again. your fierce love brings me courage for the journey. We are she-wolves, aren’t we? and broken birds. both.
Jackie I draw strength and courage from your words. Thank you my friend, we she- wolves – and yes, in the same moment broken birds. So grateful to be running in the same pack with you. I get all teary eyed thinking of you my friend. Holding you close in my heart always.
i meant the last four paragraphs i guess…”we meet in the mirror….” that one. oh.
Beautifully and powerfully written (like always).
Dear Alana, thank you so much for reading and your encouraging words, you made a difference in my day.
Oh Terri, I just want to wrap you in a giant hug, hand you a cup of coffee, and a laptop and say, “You go, girl!” You’ve taught us about pain and grief, but you’ve also taught us about love and grace and that is what your message says to me. Because I have “sort of” the same issues as far as blogging goes I really get it. You can’t get too happy about Alzheimer’s Caregiving and people don’t want to think about these kinds of things. It’s the “I’m not like them. That could never happen to me” fear mentality. My mom has a disease that is going to kill her and I will spend the best years of my life trapped and watching it play out live and in color, 24/7. Most people will run screaming when you start talking, whisper about you when you walk by, or worse yet the “I’m so sorry I could never do what you do”. What we have to remember that one person who may be out there alone, isolated, and broken who, just maybe, will read it at just the right time. That maybe in a small little way we can lighten someone else’s load, lighten their path, or throw them a lifeline when they need it the most and maybe heal a little of ourselves in the process. That is the person I try to write to. Be real, Be you, because you are truly a beautiful person.
Dearest Rena, one day I hope to get that hug in real time and coffee sounds wonderful. I have learned so much from you about not giving up and following your dream even when you don’t have a moment alone. You inspire me to keep going. And absolutely, we share in having topics that are not conducive to easy conversations or words. I hear a lot from folks that they could not do what I do – survive if their child died. But like you, where did we have a choice? My family needs me, your mom needs you – so we get up. And yes, the hope that a few of our words will be a lifeline for someone, a “me too” moment and then they will know they are not alone. You have helped me feel not so alone and isolated, thank you for that gift Rena. I am so touched by your kind words. Your time is precious and I thank you for the gift of your time to read and reach out. I will treasure your note. Wishing you some gentle moments through this week. Here is to being real. Much love to you and your house.
This was so beautiful.
‘And something that I needed to be reminded about.
I get lost trying to be like everyone else in the worst of ways.
Thank you.
Dear Pia, thank you for the gift of your visit and encouraging words.
This is beautiful. Thank you so much for sharing this.
Thank you Michelle for visiting and writing a note, thank you for your encouraging words!
Thank you for this. I need to write but have stopped on my blog and don’t know how to start again. I have a ball of grief, anger, despair rolling around my head and heart that can’t escape. Maybe I’ll get the urge to write today.
Dear Peg, please forgive me for taking so long to write back! Thank you for the gift of your time to read and write a note. This was a hard piece to finally release and I am so grateful that it resonated with you. I get that ball rolling around. Everyone has their own way and style of writing, but I have found that setting the timer for ten minutes and then just allowing myself a free write has unpacked a lot of words. No self-editing, no worrying about punctuation – just write. I hope you your words start to spill out, they are your story. Our stories are worthy and have meaning. Wishing some moments of free writing so that ball can start to unwind. Thank you again for sharing your heart. Wishing you a peace filled week.