No More Comfort in Writing

​I no longer find comfort in writing because, even to myself, I am beginning to sound redundant, like a broken record.Sixteen months have passed since the death of my beloved daughter, but my grief, my pain, my sorrow, and my longing have not subsided. There has not yet come a day when I have not wept for my departed Shahdi. There is hardly a moment that I am not aware of her death. It is not to say that I don't enjoy any moment of peace during the course of the day. I do, but only when I immerse myself in a book by detaching myself completely from my life and huge loss, and focusing instead on the characters and events that the author is unraveling in the story. Although, even then, any references to a loss or death immediately takes me out of the fictional world and throws me back in the depths of my sorrow. Following the stories in a good book or movie has been the only way I can temporarily distract my mind from my pain.

Although visiting with friends and family is very helpful as well, but even in their company, I still am aware of Shahdi's absence. I know that they know how I feel and even if they don't mention Shahdi by name, the awareness of her death is floating in the back of everyone's mind. In such circumstances, I try to avoid dampening others' spirit by not mentioning Shahdi, and they in turn, avoid mentioning Shahdi in order to protect me, as if by not speaking about her, I will ever forget her.

So,the hard journey continues without any joy, hopes or dreams until one day it too will end.