“Why haven’t you posted on your blog in a while?”
My hubby poses this question as we sit at dinner with Michael. I stop for a moment and ponder his query. The truth begins to make its way out; I’ve held it deeply inside for these past months.
“I haven’t been able to write since Collin died,” I say. The three of us sit in silence for a moment. Michael’s friend and classmate since kindergarten was killed in a tragic auto accident in February (see “The Phone Rings in the Dead of Night“). Although the young men mostly moved in different circles, and though our contact with the family had dwindled to meeting up at Open Houses and Back-to-School nights with agreements that we needed to get together, in the aftermath of the accident our community suddenly seemed much smaller and intricately interconnected. The air felt heavier. Little things mattered less…and my own personal struggles felt insignificant.
“I have my sons,” I say. “So Blake has OCD. So he struggles with depression. It just seems insignificant to write about that when Wendy and Jay would probably give anything to have Collin there, even if it was to have an argument. Maybe I was just wallowing in my own stuff. We have a good life.”
“Yes, we have a good life,” the hubby acknowledges. “We also have this very real thing going on in our life. It’s not insignificant. OCD and depression are not insignificant. If you don’t write about it, you don’t acknowledge the realities of the people who read your blog to connect and to have hope. You also don’t acknowledge our reality. Your writing isn’t wallowing.”
“You need to write, Mom,” Michael encourages me.
“I’ll try,” I promise.
So, it would seem, I am trying. Let’s see where it goes…