TW: Allusions to suicide

Author’s Note: This is one of my favorite things I’ve ever written, and boy, did it take a lot out of me.

Sometimes when you write, it’s a frenzy of clarity.  It’s like sitting in the eye of a hurricane—everything spins and tumbles and crashes around you while you are perfectly still.  You can see every gust of wind, every twirl of air, and you can define and spell each and every one of them, and add in the periods and commas.  It’s times like these that the writing is beyond you, and you know that the work you’re doing is good.

But most of the time, it’s just you and a languid breeze.  You and your quill have to do all the work, and you never seem to be on the same rhythm.  The words are halting, or non-existent, and you feel like crawling into a hole and becoming empty, without the slow labor of purging yourself onto the page.  But sometimes, despite all of this, the writing is still good.  And in those slow, halting times, you know the writing is you.  Good or bad, it’s always you.

Before Frederick left, he asked if I would be well without him.  I don’t know if he was asking for my sake or for his, but I’m glad that he did, whatever the reason.  I told him yes, that I would, and I believe that was the truth.

The extraordinary thing I’ve realized is that I have survived not in spite of, but because of myself.  Others have helped along the way, have been invaluable help, but the reason I am still alive is because I made a choice to labor on.  It is as simple as that.  I think I’m glad to have known Frederick, if only because I’m now certain I don’t need him.

As I’ve written the Hag of Beara poems, I believe that I may have hesitantly stumbled upon another profound thing.  Maybe it’s really foolish, but I don’t think the Hag of Beara’s story is as sad as it’s made out to be.  Maybe the weather chooses to mourn, but to me, it’s not about a woman who has lost, but a woman who has had.  To have had love, for however short a time, is worth the sorrow.  I believe it is not her grief that turns her to stone, but her love that fortifies her.  I believe that she may have just been ready to rest, old as she was, facing her first and oldest friend, the sea.  I believe that she had lived, and was ready to come home.

What Frederick and I had was not love.  It did not strengthen me, but made me doubt myself.  I would have done anything to please him.  I think I still might, but I hope the person I am without him is different.  But the love I had for my mother, for my family—that love has strengthened me.  It’s been worth the pain of loss.

I hope someday that I might too be wrinkled and gray, sitting upon the Cliffs, at peace with all I’ve lost and all I’ve had.  Not quite yet, of course.  I’ve scarcely lived yet, and I intend to do so.

How long has it been since I could say that, and believe it?