I have self-diagnosed Tramatic Induced Writer’s Block. I have some sweet, supportive friends who have been asking me why I haven’t been writing.
I haven’t been writing because almost six months ago my dad died suddenly. He was 59 years old. I rode to Ohio in a car with my husband and two small children for sixteen hours. I made a long list of hard decisions about his death and his wishes. We picked out a casket. We decided on flower arrangements and color combinations. We searched for his will. I saw my dad’s lifeless body for the first time since he left us at the airport two months before. I replayed the only two voicemails I had saved from him on my phone 10 times in an hour. I watched my sister, my aunt, my uncle and my dad’s fiancée cry during arrangement discussions. I talked to everyone who spoke to me. I accepted condolences, I shook hands, I smiled sweetly. I listened to stories. I engaged in conversations. I tried to explain things to my 3 year-old son. I worked hard to maintain a dignified composure. I talked to God. I slept a little. I ate a little. I got mad.
I got mad. I got mad. I got mad. I was so angry at my dad for dying. I was mad at him for being an alcoholic. I was mad at him for not caring enough about me, my sister, or our kids to stop drinking. I was mad at him for choosing a life that basically meant he was choosing to die. I was mad at myself for not telling him how stupid he was. I was mad at him for not realizing how stupid he was. I was mad at my sister because she could be emotional about our dad dying. I was mad because I knew the morning I got the phone call that my dad was in the hospital that he wasn’t leaving alive. Why did I know that? Why did I speak my last words to a lifeless body on the other end of the receiver 1,100 miles away and all the while in the back of my head, I knew I was speaking to no one?
Have I worked through some of these issues? Not really.
My writer’s block has nothing and everything to do with my father dying. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a writer. I have spent a whole decade trying to define what a writer really is. I think I have condensed it to a few short ideas.
A true writer is
Not afraid; but careful.
A true writer
Longs for adventure, but remains present.
A true writer
makes decisions, avoids life, struggles, dances in the rain, complains, raises children, listens, makes bad decisions, has highs and lows, drinks wine, is a bad friend, loves unconditionally, is loyal, over analyzes, dreams, has high expectations, gets complaciant, gets mad, writes.
A true writer, writes.