Why I write…
I’m not supposed to be a writer. I was a business major with a specialization in computers. I was horrible in English class. I probably plagiarized the majority of my papers in school. My sister was the creative one. She would take summer camps on creative writing while my cool friends and I were out chasing boys. I never even really kept a diary. Who has time to write? I don’t even read, other than the casual In Style magazine with a glass of wine on the back porch. My husband got me a kindle a couple of years ago and I think I have read three books on it since I powered it up.
When I talk about my feelings it’s direct and to the point. Which is what I hear my writing can be at times. I have a sailor mouth and find humor in my flaws and the situations I find myself in. It takes a mountain to really embarrass me and I have a quick wit. I am not the friend that you have that will sit for hours with wine and ponder over the issues in the world. If I have a cry, with a friend is rare, brief and ends just about as quickly as it starts. These are some of the traits that attract me to more men friends than women sometimes. Or the women in my life have to be quick, unemotional and lack sensitivity to hang in my circle.
This whole thing started as a way to communicate what was going on so that I didn’t have to send out emails and make phone calls. It was my way of figuring out how to talk to people less. Imagine that. But then something started to happen. I could vent my frustrations and talk openly without anyone talking back to me. I often times don’t care much for other people’s opinions on matters in my life so this was the perfect medium for me. I could say what I want, then close my computer and walk away. I loved it.
One day something just happened. I began writing and forgetting that everyone was reading it. I never let anyone read anything before I publish it so I began to forget people were even out there. Then once I realized that she might not pull out of this like we thought, it became a time capsule of our life together. I didn’t care who I offended with language or off the cuff remarks. This was about my experience and my life with her. It began to take on a mind of it’s own.
I look back at my Caringbridge and wonder how I was ever able to write it. I get irritated that I didn’t write every single day. Even if it was basic stuff about something that happened or something funny she said. My memory is long and deep, but it’s the uneventful days that have slipped from my memory. I read the last year and it’s hard to walk away from. I honestly don’t know how any of you read it. There was so much I left out too. Every once in awhile my fear of feeling exposed with cause me to delete something that should of stayed in the journal. I regret that now.
I would find myself lying in bed at night, not able to sleep. I would find a quiet place in the house and vomit out these words that were in my head. The moment they were captured, I slept like a baby. It was then that I realized that writing was my therapy and at times the only friends I had.
After she was gone it seemed to be all that could console my grief. I tried the grief counselor route. For those of you who don’t remember that delightful experience, you can read it here.
I just wasn’t fitting into the normal way of grieving. I didn’t want to talk to a stranger about it and I didn’t want to go on medication. So instead I wrote and it worked. It allowed me to feel like I was still talking about her or sometimes even talking to her. It also allowed me to develop friendships that weren’t based off talking about her all the time because I was taking care of that on my own.
I take breaks from writing because I feel like I have nothing to talk about. I was actually dreading this September because I knew everyone was waiting for something amazing and I honestly didn’t think I had it in me. But after a few days with just my computer, and me it starts to flow like wine. (Which is sometimes a part of the writing process too.) Starting to write again reacquainted me with an old friend. The first days were rocky, but we fell back into a groove and are thick as thieves again.
Not sure where the writing will go. I would like to print out everything I have ever written and take it to someone. Slap it on their desk and say read all of this and then tell me what to do with it. Do I write a book? Do I try to write for a column? Or do I just keep this as a hobby? Some days it’s good conversation, some days it’s conversation that is some breakthrough I didn’t expect. All I know is that it heals me and fixes some of the broken pieces of my heart. Its just another thing that cancer has led me to that I never thought was possible for me. I’m just trying to figure out what to do with it before I regret doing nothing with it.