As I look back on the last couple of weeks of writing, the question of why I write – why I want to write – presses in on me.
Reflecting on this, I think there are a number of reasons. First, I write to remind myself of the love we shared. It both explains and legitimises my sorrow. Finding words to express the depth of grief is, in an upside down way, a mechanism for me to celebrate the good thing we had, and to extend it somehow into the future we now don’t have.
Secondly, I write to remind myself that what we had was real, and that I was (in a way that is often inexplicable to me) lovable, even likeable. Fact is: grief has killed my confidence. It makes me feel very undesirable at times. I fear losing friends, and not being able to gain new ones, because of the black storm cloud I seem to drag around with me. But the fact Suse enjoyed spending time with me (speaking purely from a friendship perspective, not romantic) gives me a thread of confidence that somewhere in me I have the capacity to create and sustain friendships.
Thirdly, I write because I crave to be understood. I’ve lost the one person on the face of this planet who knew me better than anyone else. She could finish my sentences for me. She knew what I was thinking before I even thought it myself. She knew what made me tick. She knew what ticked me off. She knew what I needed. If I write, and people read, and show some sort of understanding, then that comes closest to emulating what I’ve lost. I long to be understood again.
Fourthly, I write because I’ve benefited so much from what others have written. I came to this space hoping I could become a better writer. I didn’t consider I would become a better reader, not simply of stories but of people and their grief. Very often it’s been tremendously hard. Deeply moving. But reading people’s contributions has served me in unprecedented ways. To find resonance in the darkness has made me feel slightly less isoalted. And so I write in the hope that my words may perhaps provide a similar service to others some day.
Finally, I write for my kids. So they won’t forget their Mum. So they will know her extraordinary capacity for kindness and generosity, cheekiness and fun. I write so they will know they were the product of something and someone profoundly beautiful. One day hopefully they will understand.
That’s what the last couple of weeks of writing has been unlocking for me. Rarely easy, but almost always beneficial.
