Dealing with this thing called grief: A story
Odusola Oluwalayomi@odusolaoluwalayomi451350
5 months ago
“I can do this. I just need to write. I just need to write. I just need to write”. The words kept repeating themselves in my head as I stared blankly at the piece of paper in front of me and it stared back. Blank. Like a mirror of my inability to create any longer. What was it called? ‘Writers block’. Perhaps this was just a phase. Perhaps it’d pass if I just gave it time. Or perhaps it was an aftermath of the grief I felt due to my father’s passing. No matter the reason, however, I just needed to write. Writing gave me joy, an inexplicable joy that the people I called family failed to give me. What did I expect though? I was nothing but a stepdaughter to her and little above a maid to her sons. Dad had failed to see how maltreated I was under his own roof, blinded by the spell I’m sure my witch of a stepmother cast on him. Now he was gone, and I was left to fend for myself, like a deer in a den of lions. I’d been locked up in my room for several days, not voluntarily, but rather until my stepmother figured out what to do with me. With a bleak future in sight, I turned to the one thing that always cheered me up no matter the circumstance. Writing. Perhaps this time the circumstance was too great. I stared blankly again at the piece of paper in front of me, and it stared back. Not blank this time, but stained with the tears I struggled to control. It seemed like they were mocking me, reminding me that just as I had no control over my future, I had no control over anything else. Not even my own emotions.
Stay tuned for part 2.
Oluwalayomi ❤️
@nirclestory