Healing Ink: Writing into Your Grief

Another birthday without Daniel has come and gone. I recall those first years when special days without him (and all the ordinary ones in between) suffocated me. Now I live the days in gratitude for the time I had with him, and I also live with sadness. There will always be that tinge of sadness. Some days it is light; other seasons it hits hard and it seems like it was only days ago that he left us.

One of the things that helped me was writing. I don't mean exceptional prose or great insights. I mean just taking out a familar pen and unleashing my heartache onto the lined journal page. I learned during those early years that the paper can hold sorrow and struggle and even regret.

Here's an article that will hopefully help you as you journey the long path of grief and loss. It's from my cookbook of memories, Down the Cereal Aisle that was published in 2003, six years into my life as a bereaved mom.

Healing Ink: Writing Into Your Grief

A weeping willow tree, one flowery journal, two pens (in case one ran out of ink), and a box of Puffs tissues. Those objects stayed close beside me. In my early confusion over the loss of my son, these items never ignored my grief or told me to “get over it.”

When it grew too dark to see underneath the stringy weeping willow, I carried my pen and journal inside a house that seemed too empty, and wrote some more. At night, I woke to grapple with turmoil, with the noises in my head, the flashbacks of the cancer ward, the cries of my son. I wrote the ugly words “why?” and “how come?” before I could sleep again.

I scribbled through myths and cliches. I unleashed resentment and longing. I addressed prayers to God.

And, surprisingly, I discovered. Some of the confusion slid away, some of the guilt abandoned me. There was nothing I could have done to save my four-year-old’s life. Even my love had not been strong enough to destroy that infection that flared inside his tiny body. I was human and really not as in control as I wanted to believe. I would have to live with that.

I began to understand the new me. She was a tower of strength and compassion; she was tender and vulnerable, realistic, with just the right touch of cynicism. She needed protection from too many plastic smiles; she could not go long without a hug or sharing a story about a blue-eyed boy with an infectious laugh.

My written words healed me. And I jumped at the opportunity to tell others. I’d found comfort and clarity. I smiled at my husband and three young children, and at last, I didn’t want to run my van over the cliff; I wanted to smell the peonies and taste the salt from the ocean on my skin.

The beauty about grief-writing is that no one has to read it. You don’t have to worry about a teacher correcting your spelling or grammar. There’s no grade, no pass or fail. No one cares if your letters are sloppy. It’s written by you and for you. And, yes, it works.

Find a secluded place to write where you can think clearly without distraction.

* Write, at first, for your eyes only. It doesn’t have to be shared with anyone.

* Write to chart progress for you to read years down the road.

* Write with the feeling, “I will survive this.”

* Write to identify your emotions and feelings.

* Write to help solve some of the new situations you must now face.

* Think of your journal as a friend who never judges and who can never hurt you.

* Write your spiritual struggles.

* Write to rebuild your self-esteem and your self-confidence.

(From Down the Cereal Aisle: a basket of recipes and remembrances by Alice J. Wisler)