Grief and writing

So glad to hear the second session was better with the psychologist! Feeling calmer is a good sign.

As someone who is often on the other side (helping people who are grieving) I know that advice and solutions can be premature and off-the-mark. Listening and responding with empathy, helping someone feel understood, calmed and strengthened--really, that's the most important step, the foundation, in starting to work together.

I hope it continues to go well, with your writing and your healing.

Susan B (Blair)

Moonfish said:

I just worked on that new WIP for an hour, 960 words. It feels good. I am in a stage right now where I know I am repressing things a bit - not denying, but just pushing them away until I can think about them again for a while.
Thanks for the well wishes Susan B!

Click to expand...

This sounds promising. I'll tell you something a very wise woman once told me. Bad things do happen to good people. The trick is to build a box, an emotional box and place it somewhere inside you. When those bad things happen, you must put them in the box and close the lid. You know they're there, but you don't bring them out every day. Because we're human, now and again we open the box and fondle the horrors inside, but we must find a way to close it again, always remembering but not reviewing them everyday.

When you're tempted to feel guilty, remember that burying yourself in constant grief does no honour to your child. He would want you to experience joy again. This doesn't mean you've forgotten him. You will always have a scar in your heart, but a scar doesn't have to hurt. There is nothing to be gained by gouging at the wound to keep it hurting.

I don't know if you are religious or not, but I know that I recovered from the emotional pain of my miscarriages in large part by truly giving those children to God. They never were mine to hold onto forever anyway. Learning to let go of our children is something every parent has to learn to deal with sooner or later. Letting go does not mean ceasing to love or to remember.

Moonfish said:

I feel guilt over everything all the time. It seems to be how I react to things, while my husband reacts with anger.
My mom keeps telling me that me digging myself into depression won't bring back my baby, that no-one gains from that. Just like you said. And I really try to keep that in mind, but it's hard for me, really hard. I keep wondering "what's normal?", "is it abnormal for a mother to be sitting at the computer writing a month after she's lost her child?" and feeling awful about not constantly feeling awful.

Good thing I'm getting counseling...

Click to expand...

Some time ago, I told you that grief can become the "other child". This is what I'm talking about, the tendency of ALL grieving parents to allow the emotion to fill the emptiness. As long as we grieve actively, the child is still with us, in a way. You already loved your baby, loved him while he was still in your womb. In a metaphoric sense, your heart had prepared and was filling daily, the cookie-cutter shape of him that rested there. Now that he isn't with you, that shape has begun to drain. You need to fill it with something because the emptiness is so hard to bear. Instead of holding onto the hope of him, and allowing that emotion to fill the void, you fill it with grief. I did, for a while. Grief is the stronger emotion, maybe even stronger than love. Who can say? The difference between mourning and grieving is that we mourn for a while; we grieve forever. But there are two kinds of grief: active and passive. Your wound is still very fresh, so you actively grieve, but soon, you must pass through that active grief. You will never stop grieving completely; that's a fact, but you must allow the emotion to become passive, to bring it to the forefront of your heart only now and again, to remember your son with love and not with grief, to think of the things that made you happy about his coming instead of the sadness as he passed. It is never easy, never something you can do in a day, a week, a month, but with help, the time will come.

Moonfish said:

I keep wondering "what's normal?", "is it abnormal for a mother to be sitting at the computer writing a month after she's lost her child?" and feeling awful about not constantly feeling awful.

Good thing I'm getting counseling...

Click to expand...

I don't think there is a normal way to be when dealing with grief. Everyone deals with it differently. And a lot of people cope by going back to their lives (and their jobs) very quickly. There's nothing wrong or bad in doing that.

After my miscarriage, I went back to writing about a week later and it really did help.

All I can say is to stop beating yourself up because I did the same thing and the guilt will smother you if you let it. And you truly deserve to live and you deserve to survive. You also deserve to be happy. Yes, you really do. Just keep reminding yourself of that and take it one day at a time. Do what you can to cope and do what you can to find little joys every day.

I'm really happy you're continuing to write and that you are seeing a counsellor because that's so important. and I'm going to pm you too. *HUGS*

I am sorry to hear about your loss. I can say that going through the things I am going through - nothing compared to the scale of your grief - I can not write. I have so many things going on in my head, so many thoughts, so many regrets, you'd think I could muster up a great story but my mind and heart need time to heal. Occupying your time with writing only postpones the things that need to be dealt with in your mind. My opinion only of course. Do what works for you. I've said this before to somebody else, sort of in your situation, write a letter to your son. It may help you with your feelings.

I would not be concerned with what is normal. What matters is what is healthy, here and now, for you. Working your way through grief is healthy. Stalling in it is not.

Getting back to other aspects of your life is highly therapeutic. When I had my first miscarriage (at three months), having an older child at home was an immense help. It pulled me out of myself and forced me to think of someone else's welfare. And that started the moment I got back from the hospital.

Take care of yourself. Take care of your husband. Write. Write a short story about something entirely unrelated. Allow yourself to be drawn out.

Moonfish

Losing anyone you love is heartbreaking, losing your child must be heart shattering. My deepest sympathy to you.

My mom lost her first born child to cancer, he was only 2 years old and from what I hear suffered greatly. The week after he died, my sister was born. I cannot imagine the emotional rollercoaster this was for my mom.
I imagine that it is much like that for you..

Writing maybe what you need to do now. It may be what will help you through your grief. I know the stages of grief all too well, however it is different for everyone and I am not sure where the grieving process you are.

I like you want your son's memory to be about Love.. That maybe a good place to start.

hugs

Moonfish said:

I had bought a notebook in which we were going to write down our son's life - you know, everything from how it was to take him home from hospital to his first tooth and first steps and first words. Now both my husband and I use it to talk to our son and, instead of recording his life, writing about his death.

I did just that yesterday evening after having lit candles outdoors and indoors. Four weeks had passed since he was born. I wrote about how I never said goodbye to him while he still was in my stomach when I went in for the c-section. I was so sure they'd be able to save him. I wrote about how I cannot even remember his last kicks. I wrote about how we used to joke about what an athlete he'll be when he kept moving so much that the nurses had trouble registering his heartbeat.

It was a hard evening. But it made me realize I can stop worrying about not grieving enough. All I do is push things to the back of my mind most of the time, so that I can survive for the sake of my husband and for the sake of the memory of our son. But occasionally I allow the emotions to surface, I "open the box" that Appalachian writer talked about.

Click to expand...

Just thinking about you, wondering how you are doing. Remember, it's okay to open the box. The hard part is closing the lid. You're doing fine. I still "open the box" when it comes to my daughter. It's been almost 12 years now (will be September 30), and I still cry and wonder what she'd have been like at 22 years old. BUT, as hard as it is, I have to close the box and move on. The wound heals, in a way, but the scar remains. There's no harm in mourning, but there is harm in grieving yourself to death. I'm praying hard for you and for your husband. Take care. All my best.
Appy

My deepest sympathies for you, your husband's, and all those kind enough to share their stories, grief.

Moonfish said:

I do feel guilt, still, about not feeling horrible every moment of every day, so I will keep that in mind.

Click to expand...

Moonfish said:

I keep wondering "what's normal?", "is it abnormal for a mother to be sitting at the computer writing a month after she's lost her child?" and feeling awful about not constantly feeling awful.

Click to expand...

This really resonated with how I felt after my father very suddenly passed away. It was a car accident, and he was hospitalized for a week before passing on. He regained consciousness enough to communicate with blinks, but nothing further. I was 15, and it was 3 weeks before I started high school. At first I was so stunned that I acted on autopilot. I had previously scheduled a date with a boy my father did not especially like, and I had the boy pick me up from, and drop me back off at, the hospital. After he passed away, everything I did was so average, every day, teenage normal that just going to school or talking to friends felt surreal. I suppose I expected the ending of my father's life, someone so integral to my reality and structure, to have a more profound and physical effect on life in general. When a bridge loses a support beam, it collapses and everyone panics; so why was I still standing, and why was everyone else so unaffected? It felt unnatural, and I even felt bitter that no one besides me seemed to view it as cataclysmic. It WAS cataclysmic in my life, so where were the earth quakes and the tornadoes? Why didn't the outside world match my inner turmoil? Why was everyone else able to laugh, play, study, or simply exist exactly as they had before when everything wasn't the same as before. My anger turned inwards whenever I would catch myself not thinking about my dad. I was angry that everyone else could be so callous, but the very least I could do was keep my silent vigil on not being normal.
But I have to say, thankfully, that all of those feelings passed. Perhaps, with the resiliency of youth, they even passed quicker than I expected. Now, when I look back on that week at the hospital and the first few months after his death, I don't immediately recall all that bitterness and raw pain. I recall my father furiously, and humorously, blinking at my mother to indicate that he did NOT want me to date that boy. I recall that sweet boy trying desperately to keep my mind off my father and on having fun instead. I also recall all the condolences and well wishes from tens of teenagers whom, had the circumstances been different, I might not have ever even spoken with.

I know that the grief and pain will eventually ease, but my prayers are that it is sooner rather than later, and that you come to see light even in these dark times. As others have offered, please feel free to PM me if you need to talk, rage, weep, or laugh, and thank you for the opportunity to share. It was very cathartic reading everyones stories, and writing my own. Sometimes it is very hard not to feel lonely in grief, but it really does touch everyone.

Oh, Moonfish, I am so sorry for your loss.

On May 2, 1999, my second son, James, was born prematurely, at 22 weeks. He only lived for about 20 minutes, and died in my arms. For months, the only thing that kept me getting up was my first son, Tom.

I still long to hold little James in my arms. I still ache for him sometimes. But that raw, killing grief has worn off. It no longer infects every thing I do, but his presence, and his absence, does inform all that I've written since. It never goes away; but it does get better.

Condolences and love to you in your time of loss. Treat yourself and your loved ones with gentle kindness, and try to find your way out of this terrible grief.

Moonfish, I am so sorry. If it were me, and if I didn't feel completely blocked, I'd probably accept the grant but put off it's start as soon as possible. But that's a decision that would be different for every person and you've already gotten lot of advice here from people far more qualified to give it than I am.

So I'll just tell you the one thing I'm sure of. Whatever you write from here on out, your child will be a part of. He might not be visible in your work to others, but I suspect he will to you. Everything you write comes from who you are and who you have become, so that what you write now is different than what you wrote two years ago. He's a part of who you are now, and always will be.

Dichroic said:

So I'll just tell you the one thing I'm sure of. Whatever you write from here on out, your child will be a part of. He might not be visible in your work to others, but I suspect he will to you. Everything you write comes from who you are and who you have become, so that what you write now is different than what you wrote two years ago. He's a part of who you are now, and always will be.

Click to expand...

That is very true.

I do sympathize with you, but life must go on.
No amount of grief can bring your child back, and you do have a responsibility to yourself and the rest of your family. I know that I sound like a cold, heartless SOB, but this is real life drama, with all its ups and downs.
I see two choices for you.
1. Take the time, do your mourning, and get back to writing when and if you’ll ever feel ready again.
2. Or, jump into it with both feet now, and let the workload keep you in the present.

“We learn from the lessons of the past, which have been bequeathed to us at the cost of blood, sweat and tears, we accept what is useful, reject what it useless and always add something which is specific our own”

GOOD LUCK TO YOU.

Moonfish, Just wondering how you were doing. Hope things are getting a little better. You're always in my prayers.

A little distance from the event would be nice. I write all the time about my relationship with my recently departed parents. I end up wrung out and crying, grief-stricken, guilty, you name it. But, writing to me is not a sort of therapy, it is an addiction. I don't know why it is as "meaningless" as working in a shop.

Anne Rice's Vampire Novels began with the death of her young daughter from a blood disease. She wrote about her pain in being the genetic "transmitter" of that disease.

I'm sorry for your grief. What is that they say? A writer writes. The obsession is not a fair weather friend. You do it through happiness and grief. This is no time to cut off a meaningful dialog with your soul, this is in fact the most important time to listen to your still, silent voice.

Moonfish, my sympathies go out to you, your husband and your families. My family has recently gone through a similar experience. My sister inlaw lost her first child at 7 months gestation and the doctors have been unable to tell us why, so I understand your pain to some degree (I was there when the doctors told her rather harshly that my nephew was dead and that all they could do was induce labour). I have always found writing to be an excellent release for all of the negative emotions that I have felt. I have had some very difficult periods in my life and I have used the craft to express guilt and grief in a positive manner as opposed to the alternative of taking it out on well meaning friends and family or on myself (I'm sure that needs no explanation). I pray that you have been able to continue on with both your life and your writing and, at some points, been able to feel less guilty for continuing to live your life without your son. Perhaps someday, my sister inalw may be able to find the same courage that you have. God Bless all of you.

Moonfish, Just checking? Okay?