Writing for my life

How writing helps me through the difficult times

In 1995, I was battling crippling grief and anxiety. My marriage had suddenly ended, my beloved mother had died the year before, and I was forced to move out of my dream home into a small condominium in the city.

I felt myself struggling under the weight of being a single parent with three young children. My once six figure salary had disappeared and I was living on my savings. Most days, I would sit on the couch and watch mindless television, or go to bed and hide under the covers, shaking from whatever perceived shoe was about to drop.

I decided to pick myself up off the floor, and busy myself by clearing out old newspaper clippings, and financial documents that I had carried forward to my new life. It was during this sojourn into the heart of darkness that was my basement that I found a small wooden box filled with letters my dad had sent my mom when he was in the war. I’d found them cleaning out mom’s bedroom after the funeral and decided to take them home, hoping to make sense of my parents’ marriage. My dad had died when I was a baby, so I didn’t know much about their life; all I heard was bitterness from my mother. By reading the letters, I had hoped to find out about their relationship, hoping that there might be clues as to how my own had ended in ruins.

Mostly, I wanted to hear dad’s side of the story.

When I opened the box, I found a treasure trove of affectionate letters from my dad. He was not the man my mother’s painted. He was just a lonely man spending his days cleaning human guts out of exploded vehicles. Russ missed his family, and longed to be home with his young kids, and spend time with his wife who had spent nearly their entire marriage without him.

I wiped the tears from my eyes, and waited for the kids to come home from school. My daughter, Marissa, always curious, asked me what was in the box. Letters, I said, from your grandfather.

“Can you read them to me?”

I decided to write a story about my journey to find my father for the Ottawa Citizen.

You can read it here.

The story ran on Remembrance Day in newspapers across the country, and I received many lovely responses from strangers who had been touched by the story. While I was moved by the responses, I found myself diving into an even deeper depression, as I realized that I had suddenly been confronted with my past. Memories came flooding back from my childhood, about my mother and her bitterness, and about the loneliness I had felt all my life as a fatherless daughter.

In a few months, I began to feel better, and began a healing journey that changed my life and the way I look at it. I realized that writing about grief and anxiety was cathartic for me; it allowed me to examine the roots of my sadness and insecurity and to put a mirror up to myself and the self-destructive behavior that had started to ruin my life.

Since I wrote that story, I have written hundreds more, many that have been published in newspapers and magazines. I’ve also had the privilege of telling my stories to CBC radio. Some are funny, some are horribly sad, but they are my stories and I’m proud to say I found an audience. So many people suffer in silence. Listening to others sharing their grief can help them feel they have a community.

What came from my experience was my blog, Rose’s Cantina which has now been read by more than 1 million people. I have moved my blog to Substack in hopes of reaching an even wider audience. And I can tell you now that writing about my cancer is helping tremendously, as a I face my biggest challenge yet.

People sometimes ask why I put it all out there, and I say it’s because wounds can only heal in the open air. It’s best to face challenges head on, and not be afraid, hiding in the dark like mushrooms. That’s where secrets fester, and that’s where tumors grow — in the dark.

I’m writing so suggest that if you are grieving, alone or anxious, you can find ways to share your feelings. It doesn’t mean you need to live your life out loud like I do. But I’m telling you that writing helps. Ask my cousin John whose daughter was murdered eight years ago this month. John finds it cathartic to write, even though he’s not a writer, and to speak to anyone who will listen about his grief, and the injustice of what happened to Ashley.

This is how John puts one foot in front of the other.

It doesn’t help to keep your secrets, your shame, and your insecurities bottled up. Write a daily journal. Talk to a friend. Pray to God, Lord Jesus and the Big Lebowski.

And if you write something, read it out loud, even if it’s just to yourself.

You can even write something and send it to me. I’ll read it, and let you know that you’re not alone.

This idea isn’t original. Alcoholics Anonymous is built by people who are willing to share their stories of loss and redemption. Shrinks make their livings off people’s misery. Even Anderson Cooper is finding that sharing his feelings about the loss of his brother and mother in a podcast has helped him heal.

Writing is free. It’s a gift given to all of us. We just have to be willing to open the box.

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