I have spent the last eight months with no will, no breath, no sparkle or shine, no dazzle, no fire, no light. No voice. The only hope I have out of this cold dark silent bottom of the well in which I waste away, is to find my voice again. Should I stay stuck here – which I both welcome and fear – then what good am I…to my husband? my kids? my family and friends? MYSELF? I may as well have curled up by mothers side in her coffin and succumbed to that last breath. I’ve been allowing that awful destructive fiery beast that ravaged my mother’s body to seep into my soul and bore a labyrinth of pain and poison and tortuously darkened caverns with no end and no beginning.
This piece has come out of a grief writing workshop that I’ve been taking. I’ve been working on this piece over the last month, slowly and carefully adding bits and pieces, and just finished it this morning. The workshop has been helpful, and healing, and cathartic, and the hardest fucking thing to do. It’s helped me to dig in deep. Treading carefully so that the fragile ice does not crack and break and swallow me whole. To look inside the darkness and feel around until I could find some light, let my eyes adjust, take a tentative look around, and then find the key to that locked and gated door. To not feel so afraid to, well, feel. To open that door. I’ve inched the door open slightly, and peeked inside. There’s so much to see and feel and look at. It’s overwhelming. But it’s a beginning. And we all have to start somewhere.
I used to write a lot. Back in the day, as they say. As a form of coping, processing, storytelling, escaping, rebelling, speaking, feeling. I spent years head down, legs crossed, crouched in the safe and protected world of my journal. Declaring teenage angst and undying love. Spewing poetry and prose about the beauty in life and love and heartbreak, in only the way one can who feels every bit of truth as it resonates in the heart and mind and soul. Continue reading
At 41, you’d think I’d know how to breathe, right? I mean, it’s a basic (and necessary!) bodily function. And theoretically, I should have been doing it for the last, well, 41 years. Because if you’re not breathing, you’re not living. And if you’re not living, than what’s the fucking point?
Breathe in. Breathe out. Live. Continue reading
Please. Don’t open my drawers or look in my closets. Especially not under my bed. And no, not even in my freezer. You’ll find what I have hidden. Bits and pieces. Scattered in each room. Here and there. Tucked away. Out of sight, but not out of mind.
I keep her near me. But you wouldn’t know it. Secretly, I gather remnants of her and stash them away. They’re not just ‘things’. They’re so much more. A piece of her heart here. Her smile over there. Her laugh tucked into this. Her scent still on that. A necklace. Photographs. Birthday cards with her wishes written in that too familiar script. Continue reading