University writing peaked my interest in writing. Animal
advocacy spurred my writing into a new direction, and I learned new writing
styles and formats, including how to write in technical formats. Writing helped
me process through a bit of grief, too. In fact, I wrote blogs and Facebook
posts about the ramifications and realizations within the tragedy of my
daughter’s passing. In October, 2018 I stopped
writing out my pain. Eventually, I had to learn to stop expressing it to people
who could not support me or talk about Taylor at all. I utilize a multitude of
practices to heal and to cope and after moving through the shifting intricacies
of life and death, I destroyed some practices I engaged in during the most
shocking and intense times of pain, too. For example, I listened to a certain meditation
app to help me sleep, I visited a horse that lived close by, and I wrote this
blog.
Something happened after I stopped blogging at the end of
2018. I couldn’t visit the horse anymore. I worried about him dying, a natural
and temporary casualty in death. I most definitely do not listen to that
mediation app I used in the beginning. In fact, when people mention events from
2016 and call to mind people or memories, I feel panicky and I exit the topic
immediately. I choose not to expose myself to the trauma of the first minutes
or year. I found those triggers to be driven by anxiety still.
So, what is this if not a blog about grief and pain? Well, I
think I created this blog to talk about Taylor. I thought a few things would
happen: People will call me and message with
lots of memories and laughs and they will send me pictures of Taylor with her friends
and we’ll all live in togetherness with stories of Taylor as our bond. We got
the bond part. The rest never happened. To be fair, after 4 years it’s still
hard for people to talk about someone who dies by suicide.
As I looked back at my blog recently, I couldn’t understand
why I would title the blog about my daughter’s life and then just write about
my pain. I understand now that I start to panic when I think of telling a story
about Taylor much less about how to celebrate her life. I feel nervous and she’s
my daughter. I want to celebrate her life and still my memories are scant. The
brain fog of grief protects us for a bit but I’m not sure why I struggle with
the best part of my daughter; her life.
I’ve been alone so much in the past 4 years that I may have
processed through the public side of myself, the one who wants to scream at the
world that I messed up or that she should be here or no one cares about her to
talk about her or no one cares about me; temporary manifestations expected in
grief. I triumphed over loneliness. I like being alone. I read, hike, write,
research, eat, and micromanage three pain in the ass dogs.
The truth is, I don’t remember so much that I maybe should.
I feel like I don’t know how to tell her story or to bring her to life in
words. I feel like it’s not real or it’s not enough or it’s diminishing who she
is. Talking about her dying isn’t working anymore.
Telling random stories or packaging her life feels like I'm boxing her in, like this is all there is. How do I put her in a
box? What the hell kind of box could contain Taylor? Why can’t I do this? I’m
an expressive writer, I know the subject, I adore her. She’s worth talking
about. She’s interesting and funny and those are just words and they don’t mean
anything on paper, you see.
How do you choose to describe the sky, the earth,
wind, and water? I know big words. I know how to use big words and flowery adjectives. I am ashamed of
myself for feeling this way. It’s not that Taylor isn’t worth a library of
books written to, for, or about her. I think that maybe if I really concentrate
on telling her story, on talking about her, really digging in and finding the
right words, doesn’t it diminish her to being just a story that people can't identify with or relate to? I can’t answer
my own question and I can’t get this lump out of my throat.
My worst fear is
happening as I write this. In my last blog I talked about her. Now, I feel anxiety and I'm rattled. I feel defensive and caught. Why can’t I
just write page after page of stories?
I don’t know where to go from here. I know I want to tell
her story. Maybe I already am. I hope I don’t forget all the stories I want to
tell by the time I’m brave enough to tell stories. I hope I don’t start
resenting all the people who never mention her but also lost her and are not expected to do a thing? There's no reason for me to feel left out of her life via others. I know it doesn't make sense, like everyone else who knew her holds the keys to who she was as a human. How does that even make sense?
I guess the
reason I stopped this blog in 2018 is that I’m not ready to progress here. I don’t know what I need to be ready for, how long it will take, if I will forget, or if
anyone really cares that much about Taylor to read stories about her by her mom. I’m
not sure why bitterness leaks out here after I feel like I’ve resolved these
issues. I just typed above that I’ve healed a bit! Did I learn
something today or just give myself more suffering in effort to do the
impossible? Damn all the expectations in the world that we place on ourselves. You'll get your story, Taylor.
