It’s hard to write about the grief you hold. It consumes you and makes you silent, often. “I will be there for you, if you need it,” people tell you. “I can do anything you want, if you so desire. Just give me a call, and it will be done.” But do they really mean it? Does it really matter? Their hearts may be in the right place, the intentions are clear, but what they say and what they will actually do are often opposite actions.
The darkness closes in around you. People wonder if it’s real or just their imaginations. You are clouded with the waves of emotions that crash against you as you struggle to stay afloat, lost without the anchor of the one you loved.
A few will understand, but sometimes the few are hard to reach. It’s hard to catch them and hold them close.
You pull open the blanket page, hold the notebook close to you. The pen is there, in your hand, as if by magic.
You will write. You will draw. Your thoughts have breached the wall that has kept them in. It doesn’t stop. It will not stop, no more. You keep on writing. The black ink fills the whiteness, a cascading ocean of your creation.
It ebbs and flows and slows down to a stop. The words of your emotion, destruction pools about your feet. You have written your words, your powerful words that released a thousand thoughts. What you really meant to say is now said.
Will you really share it? Will people really know how you think?
Only you will know. Only you have that power. Sharing is hard. Sharing is sacred. Grief can tear you and yours apart.
But at least it’s out. At least it’s written. You don’t have to say anything more because you’re on your way to healing.
You are almost whole.