When my dad first died, I was positive I would never write again. I thought I had to shut myself off from anything that required feeling. How could I ever use words to express such an unimaginable pain? It was this giant black hole I was fighting so adamantly against falling into. My time was consumed with trying to prove something, prove I was okay. Prove I wasnt feeling the gravity of it all. I was terrified of the enormity. I just figured, this is it. I cant write anymore. Im done. And sure, there are times when Im not sure words are always enough, but I stopped being afraid of them. I embraced them again. I fell in love with it all again. I realized trying to not feel was actually doing more harm than good. I needed to feel. I needed to write. This is from a journal entry 3 months or so after my father passed. I was 16. I used to write almost everyday. Little things, ideas. Dreams. Prose. Whatever, really. But I think those days are dead. I think my creativity died with Dad. I dont know who I am anymore. But whoever she is, shes not a writer. But guess what? Im a writer. Im a damn writer.
Posted on: Mon, 12 Jan 2015 07:00:07 +0000
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