Monday, January 5, 2015

I Will Write

#writeingrief Day 29

These are not just words. We write because someone has died. I have always identified as a writer, and I have always turned to writing through my pain. Well, sometimes I avoided writing or “forgot” that I could write through pain, but writing has always been here for me. Waiting. It’s truly what I need to do to sort things out.

Of course here I am sorting through that which cannot be sorted.

That which will not be sorted.

The unfixable, unsortable, undeniable grief.

Even though something cannot be figured out, we can still run our fingers through it as often as we need to. We can still try to get to know it even as we know that it will surprise us. You know the sneak attack.  It will find us when we expect it and when we think we have found a reprieve.

If writing helps me poke at this Grief and stab her and dress her up when I know that she will not accept attempts to make her sparkle, I will write until all of the words are gone. I will write this story (this it’s-not-a-story-it’s-reality), and I will trudge through the forest. I will scrub the soot off of my memories. I will write.

We write because someone has died. We write because our person died. Or persons. I write because my babies died. Death. Death is the one truth we know. The inevitable. I walked through a cemetery the other day, and I felt very comfortable. We have something in common, this cemetery and I.

And even though I know that the thought of feeling this sisterhood with a cemetery would have disturbed me 13 months ago, now it’s just the way it is. I would do every bit over again even if I knew that my babies would die. The love does not die. The love remains. I suppose that’s the other truth we know, isn’t it? We wouldn’t grieve like this without the love. To borrow Megan’s line here, “I know that seems obvious.” Sometimes, though, I don’t think it is obvious.

I think we forget and outsiders forget that at the root of the pain, the wound, is the love that will continue to ooze from the wound. The process hurts, it fucking sucks, it’s messy, and it’s necessary. Sometimes it’s beautiful. (Can I say that?) We write this story because we love.