Managing Despair By Writing Throughout The Great Pain
3 years ago, I started writing a fiction for tweens, Belle in the Slouch Hat. It is just a story about a young girl who wants revenge after her brother was killed while in the Civil War. I purposely started the story plot for my grandchildren; and I needed something to fill an emptiness in me because of the losing my cherished mother, and another special woman in my life. They died within two months of one another.
When someone we love dies, we need to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must go through the sadness and pain in their own individual way. My approach was writing.
Once the loss of those I cherished, it felt as if something was blocking my suffering and guarding me from the harshness and despair linked to death. To this day, there's no doubt that it had been the Holy Spirit helping me through just about the most hardship in my life. You many choose to call it different things, but I believe it was the Holy Spirit. Immediately after that, the reality of the deaths set in and I had no choice but to endure the next phase of losing someone you care about, the grieving process.
At age sixty-one, I sat at my computer; I started to compose, and I began to heal. I started writing a novel without the full awareness of what I was stepping into. I didn't stop to take into consideration the amount of hours that I would so willingly give to it, nor did I stop to think there was a correct way of doing it, all I know was I had to write. Sometimes it was down-right physically, mentally, and emotionally painful; other times, I felt drained of every once of energy in my body. Occasionally, my sense of meaning and my most treasured beliefs about life were challenged.
There seemed to be virtually no time-line for when I needed to finish; and no one could determine to me when it could be finished. It required considerable time; not just a day, not a month, not just one year, but two full years.
Excepting the initial three pages of my book, I did not provide an order, or a plot ot follow, I just wanted to write. I even built a imaginary barrier around me and didn't want anyone to know exactly what I was writing, except my better half.
The more I wrote, the greater I want to to create. Writing provided an outlet to cry, to laugh, and also have a journey. Unknowingly, I had put together my very own support group with the personae inside my story. For me, it was a safe place to share my ideas and work through my tremendous sadness. I also found a means for me to appreciate those I lost.
When someone we love dies, we need to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must go through the sadness and pain in their own individual way. My approach was writing.
Once the loss of those I cherished, it felt as if something was blocking my suffering and guarding me from the harshness and despair linked to death. To this day, there's no doubt that it had been the Holy Spirit helping me through just about the most hardship in my life. You many choose to call it different things, but I believe it was the Holy Spirit. Immediately after that, the reality of the deaths set in and I had no choice but to endure the next phase of losing someone you care about, the grieving process.
At age sixty-one, I sat at my computer; I started to compose, and I began to heal. I started writing a novel without the full awareness of what I was stepping into. I didn't stop to take into consideration the amount of hours that I would so willingly give to it, nor did I stop to think there was a correct way of doing it, all I know was I had to write. Sometimes it was down-right physically, mentally, and emotionally painful; other times, I felt drained of every once of energy in my body. Occasionally, my sense of meaning and my most treasured beliefs about life were challenged.
There seemed to be virtually no time-line for when I needed to finish; and no one could determine to me when it could be finished. It required considerable time; not just a day, not a month, not just one year, but two full years.
Excepting the initial three pages of my book, I did not provide an order, or a plot ot follow, I just wanted to write. I even built a imaginary barrier around me and didn't want anyone to know exactly what I was writing, except my better half.
The more I wrote, the greater I want to to create. Writing provided an outlet to cry, to laugh, and also have a journey. Unknowingly, I had put together my very own support group with the personae inside my story. For me, it was a safe place to share my ideas and work through my tremendous sadness. I also found a means for me to appreciate those I lost.
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