When The Purging Doesn’t Work.

Two years ago, I started the process to write about my Sudden Cardiac Deaths. That phrase right there invokes fear. My fear is that discussing it will turn people off and cause them to turn away. I fear that others may think this is the only way I see myself and that I harp on something that happened a while ago. I fear that I’m perceived as someone dwelling on something. I’m fearful that I’m not doing enough to be healthy mentally and emotionally.

My husband loves me unconditionally. He listens with patience and reassures me that I am doing the best that I can. He infuses me with the belief that writing about my heart event at the very least is cathartic. I struggle with this. I don’t know if I can come back from something like this where “catharticism” is an achievable goal.

I wrote a first draft of my story in a few months. When I tried to review my work, I couldn’t even finish reading what I wrote. It was such a poor representation of my ability as a storyteller. The first effort was me just purging my memories hoping to have that cathartic feeling. I felt disgusted. The only good thing that came about was that I knew I needed to try again and be better. That drive has seen me through a very difficult life that many would’ve given up on many years ago.

I started my second draft with determination and faith. It was a mental exercise that I could only perform once or twice a week at best. I produced one to several paragraphs at a time. I pulled myself out of a depressive state with every entry. I prayed to God for a sign that the pain involved in writing this piece would be a service for potential readers.

I wanted to stop so many times. I worried about whether or not my story had any value. Would another human being dedicate their time to read my words? The fact is that my question may never get an answer. Getting published in the best of circumstances is a daunting task. I’ve been at it my entire adult life with material that I feel would be valued by the literary community. I’m not a celebrity, nor am I someone who can sustain parading themselves on social media to obtain enough “likes” or “views” to be considered popular by today’s standards. I haven’t figured out how to create enough interest to be sought after.

I speak softly. I am usually spoken over in group settings. I am introverted, yet I crave attention like everybody else. I hoped that my writing would give me the voice I yearned to have. I continue to try, but I feel like the runt of the littler trying to push my way through the crowd for an open teat.

Many years ago, I had a therapist that introduced me to the concept of a “healthy resolution”. I have done all that I can, and I have to find a way to be satisfied with this outcome. Faith provides me with comfort over the situation. If it’s God’s will, there will be an opportunity for my story to reach others. I hope that it can provide them with perspective, guidance, support, or whatever the reader may need or want from my experience.

I do know that if it is published and people invest in a copy, they will read it, feel something, and maybe they’ll discuss it with friends before they store it with their other finished books or pass it on to another. On a positive note, it will have accomplished its task. That’s all I desire. As for me, I can’t discard the experience. What I’ve learned is that I have been touched on a level so profound that my mind is forever scarred. I will carry this with me for the remainder of my life.

I am very gifted at keeping this truth to myself. I compare myself to a duck on a pond. A duck may appear to sit on the water, perfectly calm. No one can see that underneath the water is that its legs are swimming ferociously to stay afloat.

I’m a duck.