I began writing in a journal on July 15, 1998. I needed an outlet, I needed to say things over and over again, without others telling me that I was scaring them or acting as if they could not hear those same words one more time. I needed to write because I felt I could not talk to anyone else. Did anyone even understand what I was feeling? Did they really care?
Sometimes, I would write thinking God would see my pain on paper and give my daughter back to me. Sometimes, I wrote because I thought God allowed her to come down from heaven and it was my only form of communication to her. Sometimes, I wrote because I had so much to say and no one I wanted to say it to. Sometimes, I wrote because it was my only way of communicating to others in a way they would understand.
For so long, I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t interact with others and I couldn’t focus in on the television. All I wanted to do was write, and write I would. Looking back, I can see that most of what I wrote was the same words rephrased over and over again. It was healing to be able to babble on and on about the same thing. It was good to write and know my words mattered.
I didn’t have to look into the blank stares of others, as they aimlessly wondered if I would ever get better. Whenever I would speak, others feared the worse. My words didn’t sound outrageous or scary to me… they sounded reasonable and full of pain. Yet, others heard what would come out of my mouth and wondered if they would have to commit me.
It had only been four days since my daughter had died, and it felt like an eternity.
Looking back in my journal, I could see a pattern. I had repeated the same thing a million times over, “I didn’t do anything wrong to deserve this!!! I want my baby back!! I feel like I am losing my mind! I can’t take this anymore!! This isn’t fair!! How could no one have known that she was not in the house?!! This is not supposed to be happening to me, to us, to her!!! We wanted her!! We loved her!! Wasn’t I a good mother?!! Why isn’t she in bed sleeping?!!
It has now been two years since that dreadful day. It’s a little easier, but the pain still remains. I can honestly say that journaling helped me to heal. It allowed me the opportunity to release things I might never have gotten the chance to do.