When Writing Helps

When writing helps, write more. 

When writing helps, also known as always, write still more.

I write things down to remember them. My husband and I have a tiny journal we've called "the trigger book" in which we've jotted down phrases, short descriptions of funny moments we've shared that we don't want to forget. In the moment, a few quick written words can preserve memory in a special way.

Stacks of scrap paper near my laptop are scrawled with this type of trigger method. Heck, some weeks it feels like I've attended a bazillion meetings. Even before COVID-19 forced everyone into a virtual office, I would spend hours conducting interviews, attending company learning sessions, listening in on conference calls and webinars. My note taking makes sense to me and helps me organize my thoughts as I listen and absorb.

I've written about joyful moments. Celebrations. Triumphs. Happiness.

I've written about loss. Dealing with grief. Perseverance. Anger. Fear. 

But I've never written about what it feels like to watch your beloved dog die right in front of you.

I need no written word to trigger that memory and yet something in me knows that until I write the story down in detail, my need to purge that pain and help myself move past it will remain unsatisfied.   

But I'm afraid to do it, even as I know how much it can help me.

Even as I sob while typing this very sentence and the words blur with my tears, I shy away from making it somehow more real by committing it to words that others can read.

Maybe I'll be ready soon. Maybe doing this will be the proverbial "breaking of the seal" that will unleash the story from my brain.

Yesterday when I taught yoga, I encouraged the students to really exhale, pushing all the stale air out, using the abdominal muscles to really get it all gone - giving them reason to do so by saying: maybe you've been holding stuff in and you need to let go. Not until I watched the recording of the class and heard myself say that did I know I had said it.

I know I need to let go.

And, beginning with a deliberately deep exhale, at least I can move toward doing that.