People tell me I’m a good writer.
People tell me I’m a compelling writer.
People tell me that I write in such a way that my words affect them.
So why can’t I express fully, in a way that makes me feel that *I* understand, how much I hurt and how incredibly devastating it is to be a widow?
I look through thesaurus entries:
Devastated: anguised, cheerless, dejcected, depressed, despairing, distressed, down, heartbroken, heartsick, heavyhearted, hurting, inconsolable, melancholy, miserable, morose, overcome, troubled, unhappy, wobegone.
While some of these come close… none of them *quite* describe the ball of knotted emotions that has taken up residence in my belly, my chest, my heart, my throat. None of them *quite* give life to the pain I experience, the sadness that overcomes me when I think about all that is lost.
I have a book to write – I need to write it. It needs to be told. It needs to be expressed – the story of a love that sustained me through 159 days of illness, hospitals, ICU & ultimately his death and the time after. I need to write that book – but there’s a part of me that’s looking for the happy ending. The part of me that’s looking for the “this is what I’ve learned. Look how far I’ve come. Look at what amazing things happened anyhow” type ending. I’m looking for the ending that says “It wasn’t all in vain. There was a reason” and I don’t fucking know the reason!
But the book is dying to come out. I’ve been drawn to that journal lately. I’ve been drawn to the writings I did while he was in the hospital – the details of what happened – but I haven’t gone there yet.
I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I can adequately express what I was going through in a way that would make it seem real to my readers.
Probably because it doesn’t seem real to me.