One day and one word at a time
How do you revive passions and forgotten happiness after dealing with life in survival mode?
I’m a writer. Therefore, the best way to cope as a writer is to write, isn’t it?
But what if, for two years in my life, I couldn’t even put two sentences together?
William Paul Young, author of The Shack, described what Mack, the main character, went through after the loss of his daughter as The Great Sadness — distant, bitter, quiet, angry, depressed.
I, too, lived with the loss of a loved one, the man, to this day, I still miss the most and love the most.
When he died, I found some comfort in writing about him, the things I wish I would have told him, and the things we could have done. I had to make sense of it.
If only writing could bring our loved ones back to life, he would never have been gone. But we can’t write people back to life, right?
Still, I wrote to and about him, a lot. How things have been different and how things should have been. Making sense of the loss through trying to write a story. Trauma dumping to every one I know because I had to make sense of it. Ironic because, whenever someone tells me, “One day, you will understand why,” it eats me up with anger and bitterness inside.
Did I have to lose my dad to understand whatever it is the universe is trying to teach me? Where was God in all of it? How dare he? Why does the world continue to go on? Don’t they know? Can we all slow down and mourn altogether?
Seven years later, I stumbled upon Dr. Kate Truitt’s Instagram account. She’s a psychologist, author, mental health expert, and neuroscientist. In her words, while dealing with the loss of her fiance, she wrote, “Human lives are intricately woven together by the stories we tell ourselves and share with others. Within us, there resides a profound desire to find meaning, to make sense of the intricate tapestry of our lives and the relationships we hold dear. Foundationally, we are meaning-making beings, and it is through the sharing of stories, the preservation of memories, and the imparting of wisdom that we understand the world around us. In times of loss, these stories become our guiding lights, offering solace and connection, providing the meaning we seek. Our brains, in the aftermath of grief and trauma, become finely attuned to the meaning-making process, amplifying the importance of everyday experiences.”
My father’s death was the start of a series of unfortunate events. And because it happened during my internship, I didn’t really have the time to mourn because I had to make up hours, pass my exams, and do my projects. One of the instructor even told me, “I know what you’re going through. I’m also dealing with the loss of my (forgot who she lost) but I’m still here. I show up. I don’t have any excuse.” It all went downhill from there. To me, it felt like I was invalidated. That there was no space for my grief. That the world doesn’t really care. My friends checked up on me. And for the most of it, I wasn’t really also trying to go where my dad was. When I thought about it, it would be horrible to cause the same grief I was going through to others, right?
I managed to graduate and all. But during my early professional years, I came to realise that the world isn’t as kind and fair. A handful of workplace trauma and dramas, and a panic attack led to a mental breakdown. I’m so grateful for my best friend who checked up on me during those times.
And during these times, I couldn’t really use writing to cope because even I can’t find the words to put on paper to make sense of the pain, grief, and sadness, even anger.
Most nights, I stared at the ceiling, hoping that soon, comes the healing.
Every now and then, I would feel God apologising to me in His own way (I’m a recovering agnostic by the way.) through small serendipitous miracles when I would feel like my dad was reaching out to me.
Just like how I stumbled upon the songs Home by Gentri, I Will Carry You by Selah, and Keep Your Eyes on Me by Tim McGraw and Faith Hill. I also feel like the messages from The Shack franchise, movie and book, were too resonant not to have given me a bit of comfort and healing. Or in my dreams and encounters with people who reminded me of my dad.
Through all this, I think, grief is the most universal feeling of all. And even if time does not really heal anything, with it’s passing, comes the space to heal and live on.
One day, my anger and hate towards the universe and life started to simmer down a little bit, and I found myself enjoying a walk in the park. It was cloudy and the rain was just about to pour down.
From then on, I started writing again. I still can’t write people back into life. I wish, huh? And I still stare at the ceiling every now and then. But things should figure themselves out and I’ll be alright.
xX
;Taclesa
