"Write hard and clear about where it hurts." - Ernest Hemingway. A quote I had come across some months ago, immediately knowing it would play a role in how I was to proceed forward with my life. Although my published work is primarily fact based and focuses on an outer topic of my choosing, at my core, I am a deeply emotional person who often craves the outlet of deeply emotional writing. Being neurodivergent, I struggle to communicate my thoughts and emotions to others. Speaking the words does not come easily, or at all. If any unkempt emotion begins to slip, a teary meltdown will often ensue. I attempt to deal with most of my baggage alone, not tolerating the feeling of being perceived and analyzed by others very well. Although, with the state of my being, and overall my life, continuing my relentless attempt to write my best work without allowing any slippage or room for my reality has begun to feel not only unsatisfactory, but inauthentic.
I explained this feeling during a front porch conversation with my best friend Aliyah as the sun went down one evening a few months back. She had been living out of state for a couple of years, and in November, she decided it was time to come home. It worked out well for her to move in with me, and I'm glad she did. Up until this point, I had been living alone for a few years, which had its ups and downs. Thankfully my parents live close and help with my support needs, both mental and physical health wise. Overall I had made it work, although not easy, until September came. I had been doing well for a lot of 2023 and the first half of 2024, but things began to come crashing down, consecutively and quickly.
On September 22nd, my grandfather died. I would say it was somewhat unexpected, although he was 89 years old. Pneumonia, and ultimately sepsis, is what got him. He was only majorly ill for a couple of days, decidedly dying as if it had been a scheduled departure. Perhaps it was, just not for us. He was a Godly man, and undoubtedly ready for whenever this day came. I suppose I never would've been. From the hospital to the funeral, the experience was surreal, somewhat a blur. My grandpa and I were extremely close. Biologically, we aren't related. My grandparents chose me, knowing about my lack of close and living family. They have given me the purest love I have ever known, and it is because of them that I understand what "family" really means. I'm no stranger to grief, but have managed to find a sense of normalcy after a loss with time. I can't say I've found that yet when it comes to my grandfather.
Less than two months had passed when my great aunt Irene died on November 7th. She had been declining for a few months, so this wasn't a shock per say. Irene was 100 years old, and the prized matriarch of our family. Her story is an amazing one, a century of passion and courage. Like my grandparents, Irene chose me too. She is my step father's aunt, who played a large part in his raising. Since my mother and step father's marriage began when I was freshly nine years old, Irene made it a point to ensure I was included, and valued equally. I never felt like the step child with her. She was eclectic and creative, working on sewing and crochet projects up until her passing. I love that about her. Every year she would call me on my birthday, never missing the occasion until this most recent birthday of mine. My birthday is November 6th, and by that time, she had slipped into a permanent sleep-like state. I held my breath, knowing what was to come. Irene passed away in the very early morning hours of November 7th. "She waited". My mother gently spoke to me. I nodded in agreement, noting how Irene never did want to inconvenience anyone.
It was at Irene's funeral service that I heard my grandfather's voice again for the first time since his passing. My grandparents were career musicians, and for a time, my step father was their drummer. Irene was fond of my grandparents and their music, so I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that one of their gospel recordings was chosen for the service. The song began and the crowded room was quiet. I bowed my head nearly into my knees as I braced for impact. It was the most bittersweet of bullets, surely. I kept my head low, focusing on my breathing and channeling the tears into a tissue. On my way out of the building after the service, a passing staff member shot me a look of recognition, and then one of sympathy, as he realized that I had been mourning at the home just a month earlier.
Soon it was December. My dog, Tippy, had been slowing down for some time. My Dad and I adopted her from the local shelter when I was in the 6th grade, also around Christmas time. The volunteers told us she was some sort of terrier, but it was her big, clunky feet that gave her away. Tippy was actually a Belgian Malinois, a breed commonly used as police K-9s. She was big, full of energy, and my best friend. By this time, her eleven years had begun to show, although I'll admit that I thought she had more time. On the morning of the 2nd, I had found her in the yard, unable to move under her own power. I called my Dad, who carried her inside. We gave her immense amounts of love as we waited to take her to the emergency vet appointment we had made. When it was time for her to go, I watched my father carry her out the door. By this time, Aliyah had come home from work, only moved in for about two weeks. "I don't think she's coming back." I said to her as I began to break down. "I know." She said, trusting my intuition and holding me as I cried. Sadly, my intuition was correct.
Although my faith is being tested beyond measure, and more questions fill my mind by the day, I couldn't help but feel it was not a coincidence that my friend had moved in two weeks earlier. In all the time I had spent alone, I was never really alone since I had Tippy. There was really no matter of life that I hadn't experienced with her by my side. She had been there for everything. She helped me learn to do my makeup, navigate puberty, comforted me through heartbreaks. She was there when I received my high school diploma in the mail, and the first time I got accepted to write for a real magazine. Most importantly, she was at the door to greet me with excitement every time I returned home. The silence in the void she left behind was deafening. Had Aliyah not been there to fill it, I don't know how I could've survived it. I know in my heart she was lead to be here, for this, at this time.
In the time between then and now, I've lost a childhood sweetheart to violent crime, a high school friend to a car accident, and a pet parakeet, Chiquita. Granted, perhaps not as life altering for me, but salt in the wound nonetheless. I had always had an urge to write out the baggage I was carrying, but always seemed to find it too difficult to follow through with. I yearn for a break from the grief wherever I can find it, which has lead me to be avoidant in several ways. If I were to write all this down, I would have to look it in the face, which I really did not want to do. I am tired of being followed and harassed by the looming dark cloud. I struggle greatly through each day as it is. I kept running, until my sparring partner, grief, had cornered me again.
I'm writing this on the night of August 6th, going into the morning of August 7th, 2025. On the morning of August 3rd, I awoke to a text from my mom. "Are you awake?" it read. I had my suspicions at that point that something had happened. "Yeah, what's up?" I reply. The phone rings. It's her. I answer, and she delivers the news that our beloved neighbor had passed away. Living on my own now, I didn't see him as frequently as I once did, though he had played a major role in my life. His name is Gay, a funny, compassionate man who told amazing stories and looked like Santa Claus. I was just beginning the 4th grade when my mom, step father, and I moved next door to Gay and his wife, lovingly nicknamed "Cookie". Gay has a garage building out behind their home, where he would hang out most days. After school and on summer days, I'd spend time with Gay in his garage, learning about history, cars, and Pink Floyd. He always had a stash of treats in the freezer, especially those red, white, and blue bomb pops in the summer. Being a quirky kid, I didn't always feel like adults liked to have me around. I always worried I would be perceived as strange, or annoying. Gay never made me feel that way. He treated me as one of his own grandchildren, and I'll hold those memories forever.
Jumping back to that front porch conversation with Aliyah a few months ago, I expressed the feelings of grief and discomfort that had been keeping me from writing and creativity. "Write about the pain". She said. Reassuring me that it's okay to do so, which I needed with the way I get so lost in my own head. She didn't know about the Ernest Hemingway quote of similar nature that has stuck with me from months before. I noted her advice and felt it was clear that I am meant to put the pain on paper, yet still found it so hard to do so. I have felt stuck in this hamster wheel situation, until today. It was Gay that finally broke the dam withholding my words. Despite the grief, because of his unique character, I found it easy to talk about Gay. I wanted to talk about Gay. That's a feeling and opportunity that I couldn't allow to go to waste, which brings me here, to the near end of this year long, pent up word vomit.
The last time I spoke to Gay was following aunt Irene's funeral. He had come over to the house to give his sympathy and comfort the family. I'm glad he did, as Gay always knew how to lighten the air and make others laugh. He and Irene were good friends, as they both were with everyone. He upheld his usual mission to smile and nurture, but I know he was sad too. Although not closely, Gay and my grandfather knew each other as well. They spoke highly of one another and admired the work of each other's careers. Sometimes I'll envision the three of them meeting in the afterlife. "Heaven", "paradise", "the other side". Whatever you'd like to call it, I believe they're there. I imagine them greeting one another familiarly and discussing their journey, their new life in this fleshless realm. I think of what the reunion will be like when it is my turn.
I've spent the last year learning how to cope, and continue to get up, even when it feels as if no progress has been made. Most days are still difficult. I hope that in the future I will be able to write to you all with good news of my improvement and wisdom I've gathered along the way. I'm simply not there yet. However, I still feel that there is meaning to writing in the midst. Pain of the mind has a way of being poetic, all while being relentless in its doing. Most of history's finest literature comes from the gut wrenching pains of the human experience. Is it not the deep contrast in the darkness that makes life's elements of light more vibrant? I can't deny the truth in that, however I also cannot deny that a mindset of the highest gratitude is one not easily achieved. The road to this understanding is often littered by intense trials, and profound loss.
I'm thankful to have reminders of my passed loved ones among my surroundings. I worried that these things could be a trigger for me, but I've found that isn't the case. They bring my home an element of comfort that it has been lacking for some time. When they catch my eye, I take a moment to stop and reflect. I reflect on the person, our memories, and the relationship we had. Most times I'll get that feeling that their spirit is nearby. I smile, often with tears welling in my eyes. Loss has come with at least one silver lining, the feeling of added protection and a near constant element of spiritual companionship.
I have several photos of my grandfather and I throughout the house. I sit in his old recliner chair and imagine the hugging feeling is coming from his body, or even simply his being. In my office/art studio, I keep Irene's cookie tin of craft supplies, including her works in progress. On top lay her latest crochet project, hooks still intertwined in the yarn. I think I'll frame it that way. On a living room shelf sits a framed photo of Tippy, her collar hung onto the corner. Next to it, her favorite toy, a spiky rubber ball. In my bedroom a beautiful snow globe sits on my dresser. When you wind it up, it plays a song, and glitter snow flutters down on two playing children. Gay gave it to me when I was young.
These accompany the other memories strung about my home, many also tied to earlier losses. My great-great-grandmother's dishes, photos on the fridge of my great grandparents, a memory collage of a best friend whom I lost to cancer four years ago. Before my mother-in-law passed in July of 2023, she gave me a ten dollar bill. I never spent it. It still sits on my desk where its been since the day I brought it home. When I look at these now, I often experience more gratitude than sorrow. That keeps me optimistic about healing.
Grief comes with many side effects, heightening anxiety and creating anticipatory grief. I've been fumbling through each day attempting to deal with this within the confines of my own mind. I began therapy, changed medications, tried to blind myself with activities I once found enjoyable. These are good things and I will continue with them, but I've come to the realization that above all, I need to write myself through it. This wasn't a part of my "professional" plan, but clearly a part of a greater one. I had convinced myself it is important to base my writing topics on what my readers would likely find the most interesting. "Find your niche, hustle, and monetize, or you won't make it as a writer today." The "professionals" say. Any writing I have done and published is authentic and something I'm passionate about, but it doesn't cover all of what my heart yearns to write and share.
Going forward, a lot of my writing will be deeply personal. I really enjoy writing on the topics with a hook or flashy headline, but within me there is much, much more, and I feel the need to share it. My grief, life lessons, memories, and family stories may not grab the attention of the average reader, and that's okay. What may be underwhelming to some, I know will sit well with others like me. I suppose I did name the blog in reference to being my diary after all. Writing this way may not secure my chances to "make it" as a writer, but at this point in my life, I'm finding what I need to do to "make it" in general. Aside from grief and loss specifically, although typically part of the process, I'm finding my early 20s to be quite a difficult age to navigate. I know this is the case for many, and that does make me feel better.
If you've made it this far, I just want to say thank you. The company and encouragement of my readers lends me a sense of comfort and community, something I seek so desperately these days. I will conclude this post here, as I'm feeling a bit of weight off of my chest. There will be more writing to come as I hash my way through my overgrown jungle of a mind. Whatever it is that my mind needs to release and reflect on, it will be. Thank you for reading and being a friend, I'll talk to y'all soon.
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
