On Writing Back From Grief
February 6, 2020 § 33 Comments
By Rae Pagliarulo
“I miss the joy of words,” I said to my coworker through a mouthful of potato chips while trying to ignore the ping of my inbox. “I miss synonyms and antonyms and the thrill of reworking a sentence until it sounds like music.” I had been trying to write on my lunch break, and everything felt wrong. Nothing I wrote sounded like me. Well – not like the old me, anyway.
After years of writing for joy and pleasure and occasionally, publication, for the last 10 months, writing has meant one single, terrible thing – dealing with my grief.
My father – arguably the most (positively and negatively) influential person in my entire life – died unexpectedly in his sleep last May. He was only 65, so it was a shock. He was also recently retired, happier than he’d ever been, and finally getting used to sobriety, which had been a pretty bumpy ride for the first 9 years he had been doing it. He was, for all intents and purposes, the best he had ever been. And then he was gone.
Since then, when I write, it feels like this: I am a jug overflowing with shitty feelings, confusion, and pain. When my pen hits paper (or more often, my fingers hit keyboard), the little faucet on the jug is turned, and suddenly, all of the grief comes spilling out. It gets everywhere. There’s very little I can do to control the flow. The only thing I can do to regain a sense of control is to stop writing. Which I hate doing. Because I’m a writer.
When the mess comes out of me, it’s self-indulgent and disorganized and weird and full of convoluted allusions and references to things no one would understand. It’s basically a few steps below what my journal looked like in the 7th grade.
When I try to revise what I’ve written, dreaming perhaps of placing my poignant, heart-wrenching piece in a top-tier publication, and later, being asked to give a talk on grief at some exclusive writing retreat (hey, it could happen), it feels impossible. Like trying to put a person with no bones into a prom dress. (Wow. I can’t even come up with a good simile anymore.)
So now I’m left with these pages and pages of brain-dump. These floppy, uncooperative words that do no one any good, least of all me. Because I want them, more than anything, to serve a purpose. I want them to reach people, maybe even help people. I miss the craft. I miss the hunt for the perfect phrase. I miss the art of writing, and the pay-off when it’s really, really good.
I sit in coffee shops and stare at the blank screen of my laptop, the cursor blinking at me in Morse code – Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t sit here and whine about things you can’t change. Don’t feel a million feelings instead of finding meaning. Don’t forget what it feels like to create something good. Don’t let this grief last too much longer. Don’t let this year go by without a byline. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.
For whatever reason, even though it’s only been 10 short months since this huge, life-changing loss, writing just to get the grief out of me – just to keep emptying that big, way-too-full jug over and over again – isn’t good enough. Perhaps what I need more than anything is a way to forgive myself for being full to the brim with this strange new sadness.
It’s not really an acute sadness, the kind that feels like a needle prick or a sharp pain. It’s dull, and it’s everywhere, and yes – it does leave room for other feelings, moments of happiness and enjoyment and delight. But underneath it all is this huge wave of – ugh. When I’m working, I rarely feel it. When I’m hanging out with my friends, I rarely feel it. I have moments of distraction, moments when I’m not just functioning, I’m doing really, really well. But the second I try to write – it’s all that exists. There is nothing else inside me.
I feel productive and useful when I write – specifically, when that writing is fit for public consumption. I assign a lot of personal value to that; meaning, the better my writing is, and the better received it is, the better I feel as a person. I know that I only became a good, useful writer because for years, I filled journal after journal with mindless immature dramatic drivel, the unvarnished messiness of my adolescent brain spilling out uncontrollably – so why now, when I have something legitimately difficult and complicated to work through, can I not give myself a break and just let it flow?
I don’t have an answer, unfortunately, but that’s okay. Through writing, I ask myself hard questions, and sometimes I don’t get to a satisfying end. Sometimes it’s just a way to scream out to the Universe, “Hey – what the hell is going on?!” I know that the Universe is not going to answer me. I do know, however, that the jug of grief inside of me will change shape and become more or less full with every passing day, and the only thing I can do at this point is keep turning the tap and hope for something beautiful to come.
Rae Pagliarulo is the flash nonfiction editor for Hippocampus Magazine, and earns her living in the fundraising and resource development sector. Her poems, essays, and articles have been featured in Full Grown People, bedfellows, r.k.v.r.y quarterly, Cleaver, POPSUGAR, the Brevity Blog, and many others. She is the 2014 winner of the Sandy Crimmins National Prize for Poetry, and earned her MFA from Rosemont College, near her lifelong home, Philadelphia. Find her at raepagliarulo.wordpress.com.