Intimidation, Part 2

The lists of side effects in drug commercials have always made me laugh: "Here! Take this drug! It'll fix your restless legs, herpes, depression, impotence, diabetes, whatever! It might also cause you to have liver failure, become more depressed, experience a four-hour erection, lose your right arm, give you diarrhea, make you die. Don't worry about those things! Soon you'll be back to your normal self! Probably."

Since Shaun died, I look at side effects differently. They aren't "side" at all. They wrap themselves tightly around the core issue so that it becomes one big ball of seething problem. The core and the side are inseparable.

Side effects of grief: anxiety, loneliness, loss of confidence, difficulty breathing, fear of sleep, increased drowsiness, heightened emotional sensitivity, annoyance with loud noise, inability to focus, loss of sense of humor, lack of desire to clean home. Loss of self.

Over the past two and a half years, I have managed to cut through the Gordian knot of grief. I have faced my anxiety issues, built a community of dear friends, learned how to breathe again, reached a point where I can sleep through the night, found emotional balance, listened to rock and roll, refocused on work and home projects, learned how to laugh at myself and with others, cleaned to my heart's content. I have even found my way back to myself, to that still, small voice of wisdom and peace.

In case you weren't keeping track, I skipped over how I've regained confidence.

***

I am a confident woman. I've always been confident. I've always known that I have something to bring to the table, and I've not been afraid of sharing it. This isn't to say that I don't have things to learn from others at the table; in fact, I have a heck of a lot to learn from them. I just don't tend to hold back very well. I am one of those women who doesn't have insecurity issues. I can't be anything other than what I am, so why pretend to be?

Until Shaun died and my confidence gave out. Am I good at being a copy editor? Is there any possible way I can become managing editor? What do I bring to the corporation? What do I bring to my friendships? What is the point of writing when what I write doesn't do anything? What contribution do I have to make?

These are not bad questions to ask of oneself. In fact, they can provide good and necessary self-reflection. But when they were accompanied by the list of side effects mentioned above, the questions became intimidating rather than enlightening, paralyzing rather than revelatory.

Again, two years later and I've been able to reflect my way back to confidence where most of those questions are concerned. The one question that still gets me is the one about writing. Can I do it? Am I saying worthwhile things? Does it matter?

***

Yesterday I hosted the first meeting of a writing group. There are four of us, all women, in the group. We all have words to share, and I think that it will be a life-giving and challenging experience. For this first meeting, I suggested that we each have eight to ten pages of writing to share. That was, at least, my goal.

And I failed at reaching it. I agonized over what to write. I had countless introductions rolling around in my mind for weeks. I couldn't put any of them on paper. Eventually, I painstakingly typed out two-and-a-half pages of something coherent and sent it off with apologies for the brevity of my piece. The writing was, admittedly, tight and has the potential for expansion. But I just couldn't go beyond those two-and-a-half pages.

Until yesterday, I thought it was because I had just put off the actual writing until the last minute, that my procrastination had gotten the better of me. As my friends examined my work—pointing out its strengths and weaknesses—I realized it wasn't procrastination that had stopped my typing. It was lack of confidence. I realized that I didn't think my words really mattered, and so I stopped.

***

As I continue to move my way through the fragments of grief, I realize that forgiving Shaun for his suicide will be a lifelong task. That might be too harsh. I forgive him for the suicide itself, senseless as it was. It is the fallout from the suicide that I still struggle with, the ways in which my family and I are constantly surprised by the pieces we have to rebuild.

I am excited for this writing group. I set it up because I wanted a place to share a love of words with women as intentional about writing as I am—if not more so. I wanted a community of women writers as I dip my toe back into the pool of pages.

The side effects of this experience, I sense, have the potential to nudge me just a little bit further down the road of healing and forgiveness.

Watch out, world. My words matter!