I knew

Day 15 — #writeingrief (looks like I didn’t publish this — saved in draft so publishing now)

I knew writing every day would be hard. Not because the words wouldn’t eventually come bubbling to the surface because they always do. I tell people writing for me is like breathing.

Writing like this is hard but not because of the memories the prompts uncover, the hands of my words dusting the dirt from the surface of deep, buried emotions.

No, the writing is hard because there is day-to-day life to be lived, and I can’t always extricate myself from it to think straight. I should worry that writing will get in the way of my life, but I actually worry that my life will keep getting in the way of my writing.

I knew I would have to be selfish to write every day. But I needed this time to pull these words out and place them somewhere else, arrange them this way and that, and then try to move past them and through them so I could stand back and look at them from a distance as I’m doing today.

Rereading what I’ve written this month, I am sucked in, swirled around, spit out. This is not an easy course. That’s why it is so good for me. I can’t stand for things to be too easy. Ease lets grief find yet another way in, a blank gap in a whirling dervish of doing.

I knew I’d be angry and frustrated with myself for being angry and frustrated at my family for not understanding that I just need some space, time and quiet to write. I want everyone to tip toe around me and pretend I’m not in the room, to ignore my typing at the keyboard, to go about their business.

Going into another room doesn’t help. Someone inevitably comes into the room to ask what’s wrong or if I need anything or if I can come out of the room to do something normal. I want to be invisible and far removed and as cleaved from normal as I can get.

Halfway through this course, I look back and see that I am letting go of some of my overachieving tendencies. That’s a plus. I’m not agonizing (too much) over missed assignments, and I’m actually being gentle with myself, forgiving and soft, when I can’t get through 20 minutes of writing.

I am much more anxious about getting the everyday stuff done, and then I keep piling on more assignments and responsibilities to drown myself in distraction. Yet somehow, tonight, I managed to break away, to push away, to have just a little bit of time to write.

I am more unkind to others when I want to write. And I think they all should understand because I’m a writer, and I need to write in order to keep breathing. I would think they would understand that I need to write to grieve. But then I end up writing in the wake of bruised feelings and dejected looks.

I knew it would be hard to write with all this life lining up at my door to be lived. But I’ll sit at my computer with my grief and ignore the knocking at the door once more. I knew it would be hard, but I’m glad I’m still here.