Writing the Way Home

I see myself more clearly on paper than I ever do in the mirror.

I express myself best by clicking my fingertips on a keyboard or scratching a pen against a piece of paper. It’s as if something makes sense and I’m at home.

Writing, for me, is like breathing. All my life, I’ve been a writer. I’m not sure what that means exactly, except that I’ve always written. It seemed a natural course of action to begin chronicling my widowhood only six days after my husband killed himself. I took to paper (well, more accurately, I took to screen), because paper always listens without judgment. It’s also like a mirror. It shows you what you put there, but in a special light.

Whether poetry or prose, I feel better while I’m writing…and then even better after.

I find pieces of myself wedged deep inside of the reservoir of my thoughts–like pieces of broken glass I can put back together to make a new work of art. I can dip my pen in the well of emotion that waits within, and something happens. Seriously, magic happens.

Writing has gotten me through some very bad times, but it’s also helped me reflect (I’m a master of self-reflection), allowed me to express joy, and given me an outlet.

There is so much power. I pour it all out of me, but then I get to drink it all back up.

For years, I’ve written journals and poems as a means of survival. For years, I’ve kept blogs. I kept a personal one through which I discussed my dealings with infertility and my husband’s chronic pain as well as a variety of little trials and tribulations. I also write a blog about eating disorder recovery, which has gained a lot of recognition over the seven years it’s been going strong. And now, oddly enough and most notably, I keep a widow blog about grief, loss, and life after suicide.

All of these blogs had/have a purpose, and not just for others: First, I write for me. Second, I write to help. Writing is alternative therapy, a beautiful and amazing experience that lives on and on.

There are other ways to share writing, but still ultimately heal yourself.

One of those ways is letter writing. On the first Monday in 2013, I left my first anonymous letter in a Panera Bread in Allentown, PA (USA). Since then, I began a project I called “Letters on Monday,” which is pretty much exactly what it sounds like.

I liked leaving a letter for a stranger to find so much I decided to make it a regular thing. And what better day than Monday?! The most hated day of the week was transformed into a day I looked forward to, and I filled it with a good deed that’s both tangible and meaningful. Every Monday I left a letter somewhere for a stranger to pick up, read, keep, and cherish. The possibilities are endless. So many places. So many words. So many pretty notecards and envelopes. So many people (whom I don’t even know) to love!

Every bit of positivity and love I send out into the world through writing is like a mirror. I get to see reflected back at me what I’ve given.

When I think of “home,” I think of writing. As long as I can write, I know I’ll have a home.

It took me a long time to realize that you don’t have to get paid to consider yourself a writer. I write to live. And these days, I write to heal.

As long as there are things to feel, there will always be things to write. That’s what life is for me. That is what makes my heart pump.