Writing the Heartache

Once, I thought I was the only obsessive author frantically writing in order to survive. Then I picked up Louise DeSalvo’s Writing as a Way of Healing and heard the voice of another Alice. Alice Walker: “It is, in the end, the saving of lives we writers are about…. We do it because we care…. We care because we know this: The life we save is our own.”

Writing for sanity, for sanctity, for survival. DeSalvo showed me that this is not a new concept, for the Greats– Henry Miller, Virginia Woolf along with Alice Walker–have all done it. Miller was about to take his own life after his wife ran off with a female lover. Woolf was molested by her step-brother. How did they heal from their heartaches? They wrote, furiously. Have you had a tragedy in your life that will not let you go? Writing through it can be redemptive and healing. DeSalvo states that in order to allow writing to be therapeutic we must honor our pain, loss and grief.

But chances are, you already know this. Your tragedy has caused you to look it straight in the face and you have picked up your pen and poured out your pain. You are standing today, perhaps even thriving because the ability to write has saved you. It has caused you to look at your heartache and be able to tolerate it.

But how do we successfully use this creativeness of pen and paper to work through the pain of a parent who has died, a spouse who has betrayed us or even a God we feel has let us down? Can we write to help others and in turn, reach those like us who can learn and grow from our experiences? Can we use our pain and as DeSalvo writes, “…establish our connection with others and with the world?” Is there a market out there, willing to buy what we have to say?  Yes, but like so much of life, there are rules to follow.

First, don’t expect you can write a full-length book about your tragedy and have a publishing house immediately snatch it and buy it. There are so many books out there written by individuals, many of them famous before the tragedy, who have had deep pain. Unless you are the parents of Jon Benet or sister of John F. Kennedy, Jr., your book is going to be extremely hard to sell. However, if you work your writings into how-to articles and essays—pieces that will reach others and help them—then the chances of being published are far better.

For example, if you were an unwed pregnant teen, recall the things people said and did that helped you and the things which cut and hurt. Write an article with the slant of helping young mothers and submit it to a parenting or women’s magazine. If you were a victim of domestic abuse, inform readers of steps of action to take in order to get away from the situation. Do some brainstorming. How can you tailor your heartache into articles that sell?

Sarah, a writer friend of mine, has sold an article on Ten Helpful Ways In Overcoming Anxiety and Stress to five different publications. Her mother died of breast cancer when Sarah was only ten and there was a time Sarah felt burdened with guilt. This brought her an overwhelming amount of anxiety and worry throughout her adolescence until she took measures to face her situation in her writing. What had caused the guilt? It was the lie she had told herself over the years that her mother’s death was her fault. Because she learned how to successfully change her thinking, through her writing Sarah is now able to guide others with similar circumstances to lead calmer lives.

When you write, don’t bleed on the paper. Perhaps there is deep anger because of the mistreatment you received from someone close to you. What do you with that which keeps you awake at night? Buy a journal and pour it out within those pages. No one wants to hear self-pity or extensive anger. In fact the bereavement magazines I write for stress hope and healing. That’s because if the focus is solely on the agony of losing a loved one, no one would be able to write to show how to live with grief.

In order to be able to produce any comfort or advice to others in your same boat, you most likely need to vent first. Venting is a process of healing. Freely allowing the wound to be exposed can lead towards an understanding of emotions and with understanding comes the capacity to, in time, constructively share with an audience. From some of your journal themes you may be able to reconstruct the anger and design a helpful piece to submit to the markets on how to effectively deal with this emotion.

Show by using creative imagery instead of clichés. Be original as you convey your feelings. Find another way to show your father was as mean as a snake. As with other types of writing, write vividly. Show and don’t tell. What kind of childhood did author Frank McCourt have in Ireland? He could write detailed pages about how miserable he was during it but instead he lets us fill in our own emotions as we visualize his cold and poor life in Angela’s Ashes.

Find something unique that sets your story apart from others who have had a similar situation as yours. McCourt tells of his brother Eugene’s burial and how he was upset when his father and the coffin carriage driver placed pints of beer on top of the casket. At the graveside the drunk driver left McCourt’s family stranded. The fascinating reading here is the unique details McCourt selects to portray this sorrowful event. We are smiling and crying at the same time because of the manner in which McCourt shares his story.

From Cara De Silva’s In Memory’s Kitchen we get a unique perspective on life in the World War II concentration camps. The hungry Jewish women of the Terezin camp kept their sanity by writing down recipes from memory, hoping they would one day be able to return to their kitchens to make these dishes. The compiled recipes, salvaged over the years, appear in this book, showing us that even in devastation, the human spirit does survive.

Dig deep and find a different slant to use in sharing your sorrows.

Be real and don’t pretend. I don’t want to read about a mother whose child has just died and hear her say that everything is okay since she knows her child is safe in Heaven. My four- year-old died and although I believe he is in Heaven, I still must live here without him on earth and I daily yearn for his smile. I will be teaching society nothing if I stress that losing a loved one is a grief that eventually fades. Much of society already believes that myth. What I want to convey is reality from what I have experienced. My longing for my son Daniel will last a lifetime. How do I cope with it? How can society effectively help the bereaved? This is where I want to reach across the chasm and in a how-to article offer realistic ways the community, family and friends can soothe the bereaved’s wounded heart.

If you expect to gain a realistic perspective of your trauma and write towards healing, you must allow your narrative to be honest, filled with both negative and positive aspects. Even after Rick Bragg wins the Pulitzer, in All Over But The Shoutin’, he never lets us forget how his dismal roots with a drunken father who abandons the family is always a part of his soul’s core.

Heartache as a way of life is what so many of we writers are about. The urgency to write may increase the more you allow yourself to acknowledge your heartache and deal with its many facets. Freely cultivate this. As your writing evolves and matures, you will help others, bring healing to yourself and even get paid.

Resources for writing through the heartache Writing As A Way of Healing. Louise DeSalvo. Beacon Press, 1999. Writing For Story. Jon Franklin. The Penguin Group, 1986. The Writing Life. Annie Dillard. Harper And Row Publishers, 1988. Bird By Bird. Anne Lamott. Doubleday, 1994. One Writer’s Beginnings. Eudora Welty. Warner Books, 1984. Room To Write. Bonni Goldberg. Penguin Putman, 1996. Writing To Heal, Writing To Grow: Margie Davis’ web site: www.writingtoheal.com/ (a site especially for cancer patients, their family members and caregivers)

~ By Alice J. Wisler

Copyright 2001

Bio:  Alice is the author of two novels, Rain Song and How Sweet It Is. Both deal with loss and grief.

Visit her website to learn more about her articles and the writing course she offers. http://www.alicewisler.com

Not a Flower

There was a day when the sun ceased to shine. You may have missed it; it didn’t make the headlines of any national paper. February 2, 1997, to most, was only Groundhog Day. For me, it was nothing as trite as whether the furry creature did or did not see his shadow. Forget the promise of spring, what did it matter now? My life as I dreamed it stopped when my four-year-old laid lifeless in my arms.

How I remember those early months after his death. I wanted to be like my Victorian ancestors and wear black, even a veil. Then my clothes could shout to my neighbors, those in the grocery store lines, and the many at church — look at me, I am a parent doing the impossible: living without her child.

I remember those who helped us as we put one foot in front of the other on the rocky path. My husband, three children, and I couldn’t walk it alone. Friends, with embraces as strong and wide as eagle wings, circled us, cried with us. They brought meals, sent cards, provided listening ears, and took care of our young children.

Then there were those uncomfortable with our grief. During the first weeks they joined our tears, but as the months dragged on, their expressions and subtle hints were shouting, “Get back to normal. Look at the joyous side of life. Heal your broken heart!” For some reason, as you may know, people put a timeline on grief. I think the general consensus is that you’re only allowed two to three weeks of sorrow.

When you are new to grief, even simple tasks can be laborious. Your energy and patience levels are low. But hear a comment or two that is completely out of line for anyone to say, and suddenly, you are propelled by anger. How can I forget the older lady in our church that called me every day for two weeks? She’d start off by asking how I was doing. My guts felt like they were stripped out of my body and my heart, mangled. I’d say, “It’s hard.”

One afternoon this woman told me with all the sincerity she could muster, “God needed another flower in his garden in heaven and took Daniel.” I nearly dropped the phone. This was supposed to provide comfort? I eventually did hang up, but politely. My frustration flared. I got a lot of laundry done that afternoon — throwing clothes into the washing machine, banging the lid shut, flinging socks and shirts into the dryer.

I am bolder now. When people tell me certain lines, aimed to help me and they don’t work, I let them know. My new mantra is, “Cry with me. Don’t pretend you understand why my child died. Don’t try to rationalize why my son was diagnosed with cancer at the age of three and died at four.”

Those who have helped are the ones who continue to remember his birthday and think of how hard it is to live the holidays without him. I appreciate the friends who join me at the cemetery, named by my children “Daniel’s Place”, and lift a helium balloon into the sky with me. Watch it soar.

I believe my son is vibrant and alive in Heaven now. I hope the balloon reaches him. Don’t tell me it pops when it gets out of sight. Let me be like a child and not know the laws of the stratosphere. Let me wish he knows how much I love and miss him. Let me believe he is alive and touching the face of God.

The sun does shine again in my world. Although the hole in my mother’s heart is always present, I’m grateful for the times I can tell Daniel’s story. Remembering him, writing about him, even sharing his jokes with those I meet, brings healing.

I place flowers at his grave. But Daniel is not another flower.

By Alice J. Wisler

Copyright 2005

Visit Alice’s website at: http://www.alicewisler.com

I Am Not Cheese

Recently I heard from one of my high school classmates.  He now lives with his family in Nepal.  Going to an international school in Japan–where I grew up—-many of my now forty-something-years-old schoolmates lead exotic lives.  You can find them scattered over the world doing really interesting things.  And then there I am, settled comfortably after a season of traveling, safe now in North Carolina.

My friend commented (which was quite nice) on reading in the high school alumni newsletter that my son had died. He was so sorry and went on to say he had just returned from his mother’s funeral. “So,” he wrote, “I am going through the grieving process.”

It was good to hear from this high school friend, and nothing against him, but the phrase “the grieving process” which has become a cliche in itself, got to me.

So I pursued it further, trying to hit the nail on the head, so to speak, as to why this phrase has caused my skin to grow clammy ever since I joined this griever’s path.

Cheese is processed.  Sausage, too.  These are molded and made into products.  In grief we are not processed as though a food item and then delivered as a final product to the shelves of the grocery store.  We aren’t put on an assembly line or a conveyor belt and pieced together.

Instead, I like to think that we are a growing creation, changing, due to the trauma and tragedy of losing a child or loved one.  We were thrown into this rocky journey of darkness and pain against our will.  We made the choice to survive. And we learn how to be bolder and more compassionate.  We have new ideals.  Old phrases and expressions may bother us.  Daniel was brain dead when we made the excruciating decision to take him off of the respirator.  So for me to hear a person joke about being “brain dead” due to their slip-up or mistake, doesn’t ever make me smile.  I don’t even like to use the word  “deadline.”

Sure, we’ve been told about the steps or stages of grief—shock and denial and finally, acceptance.  With all due respect to Elisabeth Kubler- Ross, I will never have acceptance of the awful truth of his death.  I do acknowledge his death.  He is, after all, obviously, no longer here.  But I won’t accept it as I would a birthday gift or an invitation to dinner.

It is a grieving life I’ve entered.  It’s a path of rocky trails, heavy with anguish. It’s agonizing music that penetrates every fiber and the loud noise can take years to fade.  It is not a path with “closure,” another word that bristles my skin because it implies we will finish being affected by our loved one’s death and move off the grieving path, never to feel sorrow again for the impact their death has made in our daily lives.

Grief is a zigzag of the soul.  You never know when tears will be triggered or when a word or memory will take you back, way back, and you are lost in thought for moments.  Parents who have buried their children decades ago still feel this zigzag in the depths of their beings.

I am not where I was when Daniel first died.  Time, pounding out my anger and sorrow to God and constant support from close friends has helped.  I have seen the sun shine again.  I have used the tool of writing to bring healing.  I have done, what they call “reinvesting in life”(a phrase I do like), and found my niche in volunteering, speaking, publishing and reaching out to those also on this journey.

Author John Alego says, “Like the growth rings of a tree, our vocabulary bears witness to our past.”  Therefore, because I became a griever over six years ago, I cannot sit well with the phrase “the grieving process.”

We are becoming as we adapt to and deal with the many facets of grieving.  And I think, becoming will take a lifetime.

So move over cheese.  Although I enjoy your many varieties, I am not one of them.

The Pinecone Wreath: after a child dies

Instructed to collect pinecones
We carried baskets
Deep into the forest where
Becoming begins
Through mud puddles
I picked up Sorrow and Despair
Easing over an embankment
I added Fear, Doubt
Soaking feet in a stream
Watching a pair of orange butterflies
I found Awe, Forgiveness and Hope
Under the shadow of the mightiest oak
I struggled with Acceptance of A New Life
The pinecone wreath I strung together
Is lopsided, a mixture of dark and light
But it hangs
It is as real
As I am becoming.

By Alice J. Wisler

Copyright 2002

Visit Alice’s website at: http://www.alicewisler.com