Dear Claire

I received a Life in LA letter yesterday. I used to get a fair amount of mail from readers after the SMH article came out. It was amazing. I would get these incredible emails from people who had read my blog and who would, in turn, pour their hearts and their stories and their losses into these lengthy missives that would arrive so delicately and so unassumingly in my inbox.

It was truly a remarkable experience. I remember one letter from a man who wrote to say that he had just spent the last hour crying at his desk with his office door closed so that his co-workers couldn't hear him. My blog and my experience with my father had reminded him of his with his mother and it had evoked a lot of emotions. But he also wrote that reading about my experience had given him a much needed sense of solace.

I actually received a lot of these letters. It's common experience, really. Death. The loss of a parent. Caring for a dying loved one. But nonetheless it can be a very isolating experience. I found that to be the case when I was going through it. I didn't know anyone who was going through a similar experience and I'd certainly never met anyone who had gone through it at age 25. It never ceases to amaze me though what a singular experience it is for each individual.

There is a lovely quote from Jamaica Kincaid's book My Brother in which she writes, "What to make of it? Why can't everybody just get used to it? People are born and they just can't go on and on, and if they can't go on and on, then they must go, but it is so hard, so hard for the people left behind; it's so hard to see them go, as if it had never happened before, and so hard it could not happen to anyone else, no one but you can survive this kind of loss, seeing someone go, seeing them leave you behind; you don't want to go with them, you only don't want them to go."

No one but you can survive this kind of loss. So hard it could not happen to anyone else. I remember when I read those words for the first time. I remember putting the book down on the couch next to me in my little apartment in New York. How could she have written that so simply, so succinctly, I had wondered.

I went to see Kincaid read one night in New York. I remember standing in line after the reading, waiting to get my book signed. I was near tears. I wanted so badly to pour my entire story out to her, to tell her about my mother, my father, my pain and lonlieness. I understand this compulsion well. I recognize it in some of the letters I've received. I always write back.

The letter that arrived yesterday was from a young woman who has been caring for her ill parents for a number of years. She wrote about the struggle of it all, the complicated family dynamics, the challenge of attempting to balance her own life with that of being a caregiver. She wrote about the fear and the uncertainty. She asked me questions and she wrote kind things about my old blog.

She wrote, "When I found your new blog, I thought I would read that you had written a book and were still doing something related to writing in your work.  It really surprised me to read that you decided to do counseling.  It does make sense though as it's quite clear that you love to help people."

It was strange to read that. Strange in the sense that it made me a little sad and also a little proud. I'm a little sad that I haven't written my book yet. I still intend to. Truthfully, I think about it almost every day. And proud because I'm glad that it's clear that I like to help people. I'm proud that I'm the kind of person that helps people. There was a time in my life when that was far from the case but that's no longer true.

She also wrote, "I would love to hear more about how you coped with your Dad's passing between now and then in your current blog.  I hope it wasn't too rough of a ride for you.  You do an incredible job with expressing your emotions through the written word.  I'm so glad I found your blog.  Even though it's brought up a lot of emotions lately and started me on some sort of premature grieving period, it has also helped me figure a lot of things out about myself and my family."

I'm going to save my response to that for later in the week. Thanks for writing, dear reader. One thing I've learned so far as a therapist is that we all feel alone. The funny thing is that we really aren't.

Comments

[stephenismycopilot]

You should write your book, Clairest. Or let Reynold write it for you.