A reader wrote recently to tell me that while some people think I'm a masochist with this blog, she gets it. I'm glad that she finds something valuable in this endeavor, but I wonder about those who think it masochistic. These folks are missing the point.
First, there are very few safe places to express the overwhelming, unending grief of the S.I.C.L.E. I've said it before and I'll say it again: this is my journal. I realize this blog isn't going to change the world for cryin' out loud. It's more about personal grief work. And it's cheaper than a visit to the shrink. And equally helpful.
Second, for anyone who doesn't understand graphic grief, go read Dorothy's explanation (bottom of page). Get a load of all the terrorist beheading videos offered on the site. Is this lady a masochist? Hey, why doesn't she just "put her husband's death behind her" and "move on"? I'll bet her co-workers just wish she'd shut up already.
(Do you see where this is going?)
Abortion is horrific, and you don't get popular talking about it. It hurts all the time.
My how nice it would be to "get over it". I could bury my pain as best I could, have an occasional curious breakdown alone in a bathroom stall somewhere, and shy away from the subject all together. I could attempt to move away from my thoughts and feelings (like I did at the abortion clinic) and become not only weirder and more dysfunctional for doing so but could also run the risk of becoming protectively complacent.
My complacency could not only open the door for my children to experience the myriad "joys" of abortion later but would certainly make me perpetually guilty of the thousands of abortion-related deaths going on daily in this country, as I would not vote properly or write letters to representatives (who don't really give a rat's butt) or do my best to help in any other way.
But no worries...
This is my virtual tissue and I'm going to continue my mournful snotting. I'm not going to become an impacted freak so that people will think better of me or so that readers can have some sort of Pollyana non-visceral experience as they choke down breakfast bagels in front of office monitors. I'm not going to gloss over anything or manipulate myself for any movement or to pander for readership. There's a wound here that I can't ignore.
This is my dark corner.
This is my primal, silent scream.