Why I write about grief
Why do I write? Will the act of writing lead me to the truth, or do I need to find the truth first?
“I do not want to write from where I am. This place with cracks full with mourning and heart ache. Aloneness on the edge of loneliness and a constant kneading of wanting. Silences filled with an empty so loud I cannot hear the peace. I do not want to write from here. But I must. Because I do want to write from the truth.”
Eniafe Isis
Why do I write? Will the act of writing lead me to the truth, or do I need to find the truth first?
I feel like I’ve been looking for the answers before committing words to paper, but it doesn’t work that way. Writing is taking me to the truth. I have been stuck in the ‘what happened’ phase for too long and I want to dive deeper but haven’t known how. The answer is writing.
I'm still processing a great number of seismic life changes that have knocked and rocked me one after the another since 2012. One after the other, relentless. Each one battering me.
And it's at this point I normally head into the safety of regurgitating a timeline of dates and events. Distracting myself with details and getting frustrated that I can’t accurately remember exactly what happened and when. Diverting attention from the meaty stuff. The hard stuff. The emotional stuff.
So why am I still typing?
Peeling back the layers
Because I want to move on from describing what happened. I want to peel back the layers. Stop referring back to these events like stories that happened to someone else. All tied up, a neat narrative in a little box with a bow.
Because there are thoughts circling round my head. Thoughts that I need to transfer onto paper. To get out of my head. They float and swirl in the air, but writing them down makes them real, tangible. I see them in black and white and think, no, that’s not right. That’s not what I feel. That’s not what I think. That’s just the script I’ve learned. Seeing the words written down forces me to face them, challenge them and challenge me.
And it doesn’t seem to matter how often I write, still they come back. Like a bungee rope, I might think I’ve reached a place of tranquillity and understanding. But no, there’s more. The thoughts keep coming back. And that’s all the sign I need to keep on writing.
We need to talk about death, loss and grief
And so, I write. Starting here and now. Starting with death. With grief. With the death of my parents and grandmother in 2015. A year that if asked out loud, I rush through. ‘My parents and grandmother died in a four-month period in 2015’ I stutter. A nervous tick of a smile as I say the words.
Conscious that smiling isn’t really an appropriate facial expression, but a reminder, that I still have so much to unpack, write and reflect on. That I’m still not entirely comfortable with saying the words out loud.
So that’s why I write.
Because it’s death and grief that are on my mind. Mum and dad. Mostly mum. She is a constant presence, five years after her death. Our walls covered in her artwork, her collection of art gallery postcards used as bookmarks, a rediscovered Oscar Peterson CD, a Christmas present, now the soundtrack to my writing day. Her voice is in me. Her essence surrounds me.
I imagine and recreate conversations, but her voice is faint, her words a whisper, not the roar it once was. But she is still there.
That’s why I write. So that I can deal with the aftermath and learn. Do I mean learn? Maybe. I know how life can change in a single, solitary moment. I know I can’t influence when that moment happens, but I can use writing as way to find tranquillity and acceptance. To become comfortable with the emotions these experiences trigger. And yes, learn a little along the way.
And so, with huge thanks to London Writer’s Salon, this is my cue to start peeling the layers away.