Handling Grief By Writing Using The Pain
36 months ago, I started authoring a fiction for tweens, Belle in the Slouch Hat. It’s a story about a young girl who seeks revenge after her brother was killed in the Civil War. I purposely started the tale for my grandchildren; and I needed something to fill an emptiness in me due to the loss of my loved mother, and another special woman in my life. They died within two months of each other.
Anytime someone we love dies, we need to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must go through the sadness and pain in their own way. My option was writing.
Just after the loss of those I dearly loved, it felt as though something was obstructing my pain and preserving me from the cruelty and misery caused by death. To this day, there’s no doubt that it was the Holy Spirit helping me through the single most hardship during my life. You many choose to call it something different, 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 go through the next phase of losing someone you care about, the grieving process.
At the age of sixy-one, I sat at my computer; I began to craft, and I began to get better. I started out writing a novel but without the full understanding of what I was coming into. I didn’t stop to bear in mind the volume 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 virtually no schedule for when I needed to finish; and no one could determine to me when it will be finished. It required a lot of time; not a day, not a month, not one year, but two full years.
Apart from the primary 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 know just what exactly I was writing, except my hubby.
The more I wrote, the more I desired to write. Writing gave me an avenue to cry, to laugh, and have an adventure. Unconsciously, I had developed my very own support group with the personalities in my story. For me, it absolutely was a safe place to share my feelings and process my tremendous saddness. I also found a means for me to commenorate those I loved.
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