I have always used writing as a way to process experiences and express how I am feeling. As a child, my parents insisted that I be in my room and away from them. Out of sight out of mind. I wrote then to express myself in a way that wouldn’t land me on their radar for being too loud and reminding them that I existed. I expected writing would be something I could turn to for healing after profound loss, after the death of my daughter.
When I was in eighth grade I was cornered by my English teacher. He told me how it was super rare for a child to possess such a voice when writing, and encouraged me to lean into it.
When I briefly attended college, one of my English professors strongly encouraged me to try to publish my work. She was impressed. She said she never told students to publish, but she knew I was ready. Her encouragement led me to blogging for Scary Mommy.
I found it extremely cathartic to share the unabridged version of myself with the masses. I wore a lot of masks in my real life, so unfiltered expression was liberating. It helped me to gain a confidence I had not felt before. It helped me to connect with women who were also parents of medically fragile children. I was able to inspire, advocate, and have fun in a way that was authentic to me. Writing gave me community, which I missed as a parent of a special needs child. Writing gave me purpose.
Writing also helped me navigate the choppy waters of my divorce and the subsequent rebuilding of my life. It kept me from being lonely while spending days at a time in the hospital with my ailing daughter. Writing was one of the few things I did for me until I suddenly couldn’t.
My daughter died almost a year and a half ago. Her death shattered my sense of identity and purpose. It broke me in ways I didn’t know were possible.
My immense grief not only took my breath away, but it stole my confidence. Without actively mothering Lila, I had no idea who I was. I couldn’t fathom life where I would even begin to be able to start healing after profound loss.
I was no longer a medical mama parenting a medically fragile child with multiple severe impairments. I no longer had to consider Lila first before every single choice I made. I no longer had to pack formula, feeding pumps, and extra tubes and clothes before leaving the house. Since my boys are out of diapers, we can just get in the car and go. Their scrapes and sicknesses heal easily without medical intervention.
I found all of this extremely jarring and off-putting. Every time I tried to write, bullshit came out. It was just plain bad. It felt inauthentic and forced.
I couldn’t make sense of my inability to express myself at first. Then it hit me, I can’t be authentic and vulnerable if I have no idea who the fuck I am anymore. What can I say when I don’t know who I am anymore? Writing failed me when it came to healing after profound loss.
For the past several weeks, I’ve tried to spend time doing things just for me. Watching shows that only I want to watch. Reading. Doodling. Spending time with my kids and partner. Trying to write. Healing after profound loss requires you to face yourself in the most bleak, uncompromising way.
At first, it was hard to focus on myself, because I hadn’t been able to in over a decade. As I practiced, it became easier. I started to get to know myself again. Healing after profound loss became something I could at least consider. I learned that I’m actually still me. I’m just a lot sadder than I used to be. As I get to know myself better, I have started to feel better mentally too. I’ve even started writing again. It doesn’t exactly flow out of me like it used to, but it’s no longer bullshit either.
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