When I was first widowed back in July of 2011, and for a long time after, lots and lots of people suggested writing as a coping tool for the grief. People said to write down all my thoughts, my emotions, all of it. Some people suggested writing letters or notes to Don himself, to continue the ritual of talking with him and telling him things in a new way. I started doing that. I started each letter with “Dear Dead Husband”, and then I just told him whatever I felt like saying at that moment. Some of those “Dear Dead Husband” letters ended up in my book. It did help. Writing helped me from day one, honestly. The night of Don’s death, I found myself sitting at my home office desk, almost robotically and without thought, and furiously typing out words. My mom walked into the room and asked “what on earth are you writing?” What came out of my mouth was: “I don’t know. Don’s Eulogy, I guess.” A few days later, I was standing next to his casket at the funeral services, saying words out loud to the few hundred people staring back at me.
The other day, I was thinking about how writing and widowhood have a lot in common. When you are writing something, especially something very emotional and personal, it can often feel extremely lonely. There is just you and your words, and whatever method you are using to write them out. There is a lot of silence and lots of pauses to think about the next words, and lots of subtle tears when what you are writing about brings it all back. When you write something, during the act of writing it, its just you and your thoughts. It’s your heart. Nobody else is commenting on it, or giving feedback, or opinions, or validations. If its something you are planning to share with others, such as a blog post like this or an entire book, you have no control over people’s reactions to it once it is out there, and lots of times you never hear a peep from anyone, especially with blogs. Lots of times, nobody leaves comments or says anything, and you start to wonder “is anyone even reading this crap? Does anyone care?” Writing, much like widowhood, can feel very lonely, and can feel as if you are talking into a vacuum.
Yesterday, we had our 2x per month Soaring Spirits Regional Group meetup here in Massachusetts. My friend Allison and I co-lead the group, and its basically widowed people gathering for lunch or coffee or whatever else – a place to be yourself, talk about your loss, talk about life, grief, laugh, cry, get pissed off, whatever you need to do. Everyone who is there understands that one minute you could be crying and then two minutes later you are laughing uncontrollably, then feeling incredible guilt for laughing while your person is sitting there dead forever.
Anyway, yesterday it was a small group of us, and one woman who was there for the first time ever. I walked into the restaurant, and she greeted me by saying: “Do you mind if I give you a hug? I’ve been reading your Widows Voice blog for the longest time now, and I feel like I know you.” And in that moment, the vacuum turned outward and became a vessel instead. Most of the time, people silently read the blog or the book or the whatever, and they never tell me how it affected them or if it did at all, and so I never know. But every now and then, someone TELLS me, and it reminds me why I still write in here. It reminds me that it does matter, even though it often doesnt feel like it does. It reminds me that while writing is definitely a great tool for the act of healing, it becomes even more powerful when you share it forward, because now not only is the author getting something from it, but perhaps someone out there who reads it is too. Perhaps someone out there who is reading your words is in the middle of feeling like THEY are in the vacuum of widowhood or loss, and maybe they are convinced that nobody gets it and that they are, in fact, losing their mind. Then they read words that seem to scream: “Me too!!! I think this way too!!! You are not alone!!!”, and maybe after reading those words, they now have a little more strength to keep going for the next hour or two, and then the next day, and the day after that.
Grief can suck you in like a vacuum, and it can be the loneliest thing you have ever felt.
Reach out. Tell someone that you are feeling that loneliness.
Unplug the vacuum and turn off the noise.
Listen to the power of shared pain, and thank each other for helping to lighten the load.
