I came across an interesting post on my reader list – a question rather that asked why I write. Why do I write really? And what made me start this blog?
I’ve always been better at writing down my feelings. I’ve never been good at saying them. So most of my emotional communication has happened via the written word. When I look back at all those notes, and cards, and letters that I sent to G (that he saved so meticulously); I see my feelings clearly. They’ve been documented through the years, in bits and pieces and fragments of crumbling paper. I see friendship, and love, and despair, and desperation, and passion, and anger, and now grief. My relationship with writing goes long back. Writing is my voice.
So the most logical thing to do, when I couldn’t comprehend the world after G’s death, was to write about it. It began as my way to get things out of my system that I couldn’t bring myself to say. But then it opened a new world for me – of people dealing with similar losses, undergoing the exact same turmoil; of people struggling with infertility and willing to go to any lengths to have that baby. A world of kindred souls, worlds apart.
Writing this blog also brings me a moment of peace. When things get too dark, when feelings run amok, writing channelized them, makes me focus, makes me feel, and makes me cry over them – and that is cleansing.
I write when my heart is heavy. I write when my head pounds in pain. I write when I fight with the world over nothing. I write when little struggles overwhelm me. And mostly I write when I miss him. Sometimes it’s my way of remembering the good times, sometimes it’s the way I talk to him now, sometimes it’s just a crib fest listing all my petty troubles.
I write, because it hurts not to.