Writing from a place of pain seems easier, seems more poetic, seems universal. We all understand pain, the pain of loss, the pain of disappointment, of broken promises, missed connections, squandered dreams. It connects us. Solidifies the truth that we are all the same despite our origins. Pain unites us in understanding. For those of us with conscience, it unites us in empathy. On the days when I was in the most emotional pain, I found it easier to write and share and let everyone in, perhaps my need to be understood sharpened my ability to communicate in some way. Despite all of my “blessings” these days and despite how wonderful things are going, I still grieve for me. I have grief for the little girl with all the issues that sometimes rears her tormented head. I grieve the 2 1/2 years I wasted loving a man who never loved me. I miss my dog. My thoughts and feelings are as random as that…bouncing from one memory to the next, bringing with it waves of emotion that ebb and flow like the tides in the ocean. I grieve for friends I’ve lost through this process, for friends who disappointed me, who let me down. I get angry when I think of E doing anything at all in the name of cancer fundraising after the deplorable way he and his family treated me. Only now I am not writing from a place of pain. I am simply writing to clear space in my mind for new more pleasant memories. And I am still just writing for me.