It’s been six months since my mom passed away—six months of trying to figure out who I am and what I wanted to do with my life. I questioned everything. I wondered if I held my beliefs because of her. I wondered if I kept my hair the way I did for her. I even wondered if I had wanted to write because of her. It was a tough time for me. I felt completely lost and alone, set adrift in a sea of pain with no refuge in sight.
Desperate, I finally sought help for the depression that sucked the very life out of me and found my answer in the place I last expected to find it. My counselor told me to keep my relationship alive with my mother by writing letters to her.
I fought the suggestion for about a week before I finally got low enough to put it to the test. I sat one night after four in the morning, unable to sleep for the memories that circled through my mind, and finally poured out my soul on paper. I told her what I missed. I told her my regrets. I even told her I was a little angry with her and God for taking her home when I wasn’t ready. I spewed it all out on the page and when I was done I sat back and read it.
It was a thing of beauty. This purging, this vomit I had thrown onto the page to find some peace had done its job. The cleansing had begun. From that day forward the gnawing pain that had dragged me to the depths disappeared and in its place came a sense of understanding and acceptance. I couldn’t be happy she was gone, but finally understood that I could go on. I could still live even without her wisdom and support.
Writing, communicating with a dead woman through the written word brought me closer to her and helped me to understand myself for what I truly am.
I am a writer.