Today’s prompt: Has anything developed or become clear in your writing that you hadn’t seen before? Have you learned anything about yourself, or your grief, or the ways things live in you? Has anything surprised you? Disappointed you?
When I read that we are halfway through this course, my first thought was that I wish sadness had a visible, calculable halfway point. That’s just crazy talk, though. My second thought was that I’ll miss this course when we are finished.
It’s interesting to step back and look at my writing. I’ve long found comfort in writing, whether I keep it to myself or share it, but never more than these past several months. There have been things–massive emotions–that I just can’t say aloud. Literally. I would not be able to speak while trying to describe this bone-deep pain or unfathomable heartbreak. The words do exist, but some combinations of words render me a sobbing, choking mess. That’s no good for anyone. It’s frustrating and confusing for the person trying to decipher what I’m saying, but it’s also hard for me. Who enjoys ugly crying for an audience?
Oh, I cry when I write. Sometimes I’m a snotty, teary disaster by the time I finish a writing, but I’m the only witness. Without the distraction of fogged glasses, smeared mascara, and perpetual sniffling, my words can speak for themselves. My thoughts are untarnished by my actions.
When I write, whether for this course or on my own, I experience catharsis. I often begin a journal entry when I can feel myself spinning out; racing thoughts, pounding heart, and an overwhelming desire to escape the doom I feel encroaching. Maybe it’s forcing myself to slow down. To think about something else. To give order to my thoughts that are trying to run away with my mind.
Whatever it is, it helps.
This course is so different from my typical journaling. Left to my own devices, I write sporadically, only when I feel like writing. Sometimes, it starts with a photo, an approach that works well for me; when I am compelled to take a picture, I often see a story or a moral.
Working from a daily prompt, I have structure I wouldn’t have on my own, and I have a variety of prompts and styles. I’m challenged to take a step back from my grief, to evaluate who, what, and how I am. Through that process of evaluation, I have discovered a few things about myself.
I’m learning that I’m stronger than I knew, but that I don’t have to be strong. I can be kind to myself. I must.
I’m learning that, as depleted as I am, it’s still possible for me to help others with their burden of grief. Losing Cooper and wrangling this grief left me more empathetic.
I’m learning that, although I don’t feel anger toward God or Cooper, there is some anger, or at least some attitude, lurking in me. It doesn’t show itself in spoken words, but has surfaced several times in written words. That . . . aggression(?) surprised me. I’ve been angry with the mental health system all along, but there’s apparently more than that.
I’m learning that taking on a writing persona can be freeing. I’ve seen it happen with student actors on stage, but I’m not an actor. I believed but didn’t understand. Now, I do understand. There have been posts, specifically Prompt 5 and Prompt 13, that allowed me to speak as Grief herself. They are among my favorites.
I’m learning that this may be the journey that doesn’t end, but continues to evolve.
Mainly, though, I’m learning.
Woods Writes 