My Mother Read My Book Today and We Cried

The reason I felt that tingle of fear, even though my family loves me dearly, is that I am the one who has always kept my emotions to myself. Sometimes to my detriment. Our family is close, and yet I hesitated to share my anguish and grief with those same family members. Two reasons: I didn't want to burden them nor did I want to expose myself for the vulnerable being I am.

My mother told me in a loving but shaking voice how she had been able to read only the first sixty pages of my book, because it was so emotional and she understood every bit of anguish I'd kept from the family during my husband's illness. She read in every line of my writing my re-lived pain. She said she would read more tomorrow. My parents were present a good portion of the time while my husband was ill, she knew the facts, and yet she gained a different perspective of that time from my words. Words that were indelibly burned within myself -- of that time.

We talked for a good hour about that time, and the times ahead. In a way her response to my writing is a validation of sorts, even though I know in my heart I do not need validation from anyone. I guess it is ultimately my way of sharing with my family and those that know me, those harrowing, pain-filled days. Sometimes, writing is my best, most comfortable form of expression. I told my mother I wish I had expressed myself verbally, more often in those early days, but I guess in the end it was the way I had to handle my crisis, on my own. However, in hindsight, I wouldn't recommend it to others, simply because I believe it delayed my grieving process. I kept it all inside, internalized everything, sharing very little in my attempt to heal myself.

Now, in my writing, I urge others in the grief process to share what they can of their grief. I know now that talking is many times the best pain sedative we have at our disposal. We don't even need a response at times, we just need someone who cares and will listen.