Struggling With Grief By Writing Through The Pain
3 years ago, I started simply writing a fiction for tweens, Belle in the Slouch Hat. It is just a story about a young girl who seeks revenge after her brother was killed during the Civil War. I consciously started the story for my grandchildren; and I needed something to fill an emptiness in me as a result of the loss of my beloved mother, and another special woman in my life. They died within two months of each other.
Anytime someone we love dies, we have to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must go through the sorrow and agony in their own personal way. My approach was writing.
After the loss of those I cherished, it felt like something was blocking my agony and guarding me from the cruelty and misery associated with death. To this day, I believe it was the Holy Spirit helping me through one of the hardship in my life. You many decide to call it something else, but I believe it was the Holy Spirit. Immediately after that, the reality of the deaths set in and I had no choice but to endure the next phase of losing someone you cherish, the grieving process.
At age sixy-one, I sat at my computer; I started to write, and I started to recover. I jumped right into writing a novel devoid of the full knowledge of what I was stepping into. I didn’t stop take into consideration the amount of hours in which I would so willingly give to it, nor did I stop to think there was a correct way of doing it, all I know was I had to write. Sometimes it was down-right physically, mentally, and emotionally painful; other times, I felt drained of every once of energy in my body. Occasionally, my sense of meaning and my most treasured beliefs about life were challenged.
There was clearly hardly any schedule for when I needed to finish; and no one could dictate to me when it could be finished. It required considerable time; not a day, not only a month, not one year, but two full years.
With the exception of the first three pages of my book, I did not provide an order, or a plot ot follow, I just needed to write. I even built a imaginary barrier around me and didn’t want anyone to realize exactly what I was writing, except my better half.
The more often I wrote, the more I desired to create. Writing gave me an avenue to cry, to laugh, and have a journey. Unconsciously, I had put together my very own support group with the personas inside my story. For me, it had become a safe place to share my emotions and thoughts and process my suffering. I also found a means for me to commenorate those I loved.
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