When I started this blog it was a way for me to keep connected to my friends and fam that I just didn’t have the ability to speak to. As time went on, it has continued to be a source of release for me but the circle has widened in ways I couldn’t have imagined. I now have a pretty elaborate circle surrounding me at all times and holding me in the sweetness of solidarity. I forget this often, until I post something that calls out voices from beyond the periphery who share tender moments of recognition. I’m so grateful even if it still seems a bit surreal. I have read blogs of other writers and feel a kinship to them even if we have never shared breathing room together, so I understand how it happens and also that with a loss like Isaac, which has impacted such a loving community of people, that we are united in more ways than my blog or anythjng I might seem to share or over share for that matter.
I’ve considered the trajectory of how allowing people to bear witness to my process of loss, grief, reflection, might invite more than I bargained for, and have at times felt the old familiar tug of over exposure and the occasional vulnerability hangover. It waxes and wanes, but there is a sense beyond venting that I feel is important. I look around and notice that everyone seems to have their shit figured out and I don’t. So I shine a light on the dark spots in my own mind as much to ask as to answer– to feel less alone as much to say “you aren’t alone if you feel anything like I’m feeling.
I’ve talked about this recently to dear ones and I think I’m still working through the bulk of it, but I can’t help but feel as though there’s an opportunity in being so open and raw– not opportunistic or preying upon anyone’s sympathy, but to illuminate my, our, collective humanity. I think if I have learned anything from suicide, it is that private pain, unshared pain, secret pain, or the pain from feeling alone, or the pressure or expectation to be perfect or have your shit figured out, is far too great to carry.
There are times I consider any given post my last; that I will sign off, because I’ve said all there is to say about how sad this is, or that I’ve recycled thoughts and people are saturated with my words. But then I get more emails texts phone calls or comments telling me that I’ve helped someone with something or I’ve illuminated something they needed to see and I return to this idea that for whatever reason, I am reaching People as I am reaching out myself. And isn’t that what it is to be human?
We’re all just walking each other home.–Ram Dass
As my bestie says, “you are a writer. You have always been a writer, and this is how you work it out”.
If I’ve helped you as I search myself, that makes me feel connected. I may not always know how to show that when I see you or hear from you, part of that is akin to being able to receive compliments and part of that is the surreality that pain and gratitude and perplexity have brought us together for a moment in time and together we find ourselves less alone, which is a trip and a half, man.
Writing has always been quite effortless for me; something I don’t judge about myself, something that feels a part of me that I have to do. In becoming a blogger, there are times it feels weird, like who am I to think anyone gives two shits about what I have to say about life? And I don’t actually mean that as self deprecation– just an honest question I ask from time to time. But I respect the muse enough to listen even when I dont have an answer. Im not an expert on grief or surviving the loss of a child or moving forward. I’m not even sure I qualify as an expert on myself, as I am really just getting to know this person I have become. But, for whatever it is worth, I’m glad you are along for the ride and I’m grateful for the opportunity to be heard and feel less alone in a time where I am prone to isolate. Thank you for this, and I hope I am a good steward of the time we share, even when I forget that anyone besides my mom and my sisters and my sistas are paying attention.