A Little Mouse At The Door

When most people think of a writing process, they probably picture their favorite author - Stephen King feverishly typing away in his back office, thinking about throwing away pages, upon pages, of a book that his wife would later tell him would be a hit, Carrie Bradshaw in an apartment none of us could ever afford, in $1200 Manolo Blahnik heels, writing about a life in a less-than-believable concept, or even Hunter S. Thompson, with his Chivas, cocaine, and a hankering for Fettuccine Alfredo at 4am. For me, writing starts as a little mouse at the door of my brain.

Janice, the woman who files all the ideas and paperwork upstairs in my head, she lets him in. She’s an animal lover like I am. I think mice get such a bad wrap; they’re sweet and gentle and closer to us, their awful, human counterparts, than people allow themselves to believe. This little mouse, he always comes in, and doesn’t say anything or squeak. And Janice watches for a few minutes, makes sure he has what he needs, and goes back to her cigarette and filing. And he he finds a spot somewhere and eats his little cheese crumble or whatever it is he’s got (Janice has told me she’s seen him with lo mein before, so what do I know about mice?). And I don’t know what he does when he’s munching away at his lunch, but that’s how my writing process starts. A little mouse at the door. And suddenly, there is an infectious idea, that grows like that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach, when suddenly you find yourself incapable of living without a person you met three months ago. Now, some people, when they write, must immediately rush to a notebook or computer and write. And I have a notebook for those overly emotional small pieces I don’t share with you guys…because some of my emotions are even too heavy for me. But I don’t rush the process for my blog for you readers at home. Day 1, turns into day 2, and the mouse keeps enjoying his lunch. And the ideas and emotions flesh themselves out upstairs. I don’t remember names at all, even people I’ve known for years (love Janice to death, she’s got tenure at this point, but her cigarettes sometimes come before her filing), but I can keep these ideas that pile up like the crumbs the mouse keeps bringing in each day so straight. I guess that’s how you know you must be doing what you’re supposed to be, even at times of complete creative death - a helpful tip is to remember that during these times, we are probably living the lives we will eventually find ourselves writing about, and that not writing or whatever it is you do is necessarily a lack of being creative but experiencing the things that make us creative in the first place. And finally, when I feel ready, I start typing. I usually get things out in order, and I type and type and type and type until I can breathe again. And then sometimes there is filler. Maybe not everyone cares to admit that, but there must be in all writing. I guess a bridge from point A to point B. Even a small one. But sometimes, you end up loving the filler just as much, if not more as some other places on the map. But almost all the time, I sob uncontrollably when I write, and I don’t notice until someone either walks into the room and asks if I’m OK or I get up for a drink or to go to the bathroom and have no idea where I am in this catatonic state of emotional purging. And in the end, the small portion of you who read this blog or anything I’ve ever written, get a small glimpse into what may feel like an insignificant look into an unbearably sad (but never really showing it) and emotionally unstable girl’s head who cut herself open and served herself up on a platter so that she could breathe again, and maybe keep someone else from having to cut themselves open in a world of normality and boredom. Because nobody should ever have to suffer something as terrible as that.

The creative process, especially with writing (though maybe I’m biased) is a lot like grief. Everyone does it a bit differently. And that mouse always knocks, though the mouse can take many forms. Not all of which are good. And definitely not all that we should allow in.

I did meet someone a few months ago, and oddly found myself spilling all these horrible things I’ve done or experienced in my 34 years of living within the first few weeks. There are people I’ve known my whole life who don’t know these things about me. But I just found myself rambling on. And I couldn’t figure out why at first. Was it comfort? Was it safety? Was it punch drunk love? And then I realized, it was grief. Not mine, but her’s. I didn’t know the things that hurt her yet. I wouldn’t for quite some time after. But much like we can tell something silly we share with another person like a zodiac sign, I could sense her grief, and though quite different in a lot of ways, it just as dark and foreboding as the Bering Sea, an ocean of deep blue-grey, that sways like what would seem soothing, until you see the depth of the ways, and the way that blue-grey hue changes into something like a gaping mouth of a creature you have only encountered in your nightmares. The all-consuming grief.

It’s amazing what happens when you are open and honest with people. More grief, I’ve found. For me, relationships and friendships are one part absolutely prismatic infatuation, with a touch of obsession, mixed with a lot of sadness, guilt, oversharing, and another part…the hope that this person sticks around long enough to love all the versions of me and I them in return. You see, grief is not just death. It’s not just losing my stepfather a few months ago, my father almost 20 years ago, and the countless friends and people who I’ve met over the years to drugs and suicide. Grief comes in many forms. It comes from the loss of friends, the changes in relationships, breakups, the heartache of seeing the person you love with someone who isn’t you. Grief is the most overbearing of all the emotions because it changes form…and it grows. Much like sitting at home on a quiet night, maybe with a glass of wine, reading a nice book, and then you hear the police sirens, or a car speed down your road. Grief likes you to be alone. It feeds on your weaknesses. It wants you to be sad, and then angry, and then question all the why’s, and then blame yourself, your shortcomings, your lack of judgement, lack of character, lack of good looks, lack of money, lack of picking up the phone one last time, or beating yourself up everyday for years as to why you yelled at whoever that one time in 2002 over absolutely nothing relevent today but because you had a tough day, you screamed. Grief absolutely lives for that. And that’s why grief is such a beautiful yet dangerous emotion. It’s not like the other ones. It wants to make sure there’s no room for anything else.

If you’re a fan of horror movies, think about some of your favorites. In most, the protagonist deals with some form of grief. You see, we think of grief as strictly the death of a family member, but it’s not just that. In a lot of cases, guilt begets grief. Issues in a marriage, loss of a job, arguing with a family member or friend, and so on. The guilt will build until we find ourselves open to choice. When you have a bad day, what do you do? Eat a bunch of shitty food? Get drunk? Buy things you don’t need? Get laid? Anything to make that sadness disappear, right? Horror movies need a little bit more UFH in an hour an a half so they speed up the process. They have the protagonist start noticing some weird shit in a new house they bought, and next thing you know, dude is fighting with this “entity”, could be a ghost, could be a poltergeist, or unfortunately (thanks to “hipster horror” as I call it), it could just be some ex-girlfriend drama. That’s not a horror movie FYI, that’s just a Friday night out in some shitty bar in Southie (mega gross).

Sadly, and maybe it’s because death has always existed so easily in my life, I find grief to be most difficult in the loss of relationships rather than the loss of life. Life we expect to have an end. If a person or an animal is sick, though sad, they are “better”, “happier” to not carry the burden of a ailing body. I can deal with those things. Not well might I add, I crumble at first, and stumble a few more times after, but overall, the beauty of knowing the person or being you love so much is now no longer in pain…it would be selfish to think otherwise. But the grief of losing a person, whether relationship or friendship, knowing that their life is existing without being entangled in your’s…it really is an all-consuming sadness. The worst kind of grief. Some people can accept the end of relationships or connections, but I’ve always struggled, to a degree. “Well Kerry, that’s incredibly selfish”. I don’t mean it in a “well if I can’t have you, nobody else can” way. I mean it in the sense that I find myself putting up with a lot of shit no matter who the person or the relationship, and though I’m no easy, spring walk-in-the-park, I value all relationships, whether platonic or romantic, to be worth working on. What I’ve come to realize, is that it’s not the grief of losing the person, but the grief of wasted emotion - wasted words, wasted poetry, wasted jokes, wasted laughter. I started writing this post in Dec of 2024. I don’t like to waste words anymore clearly. Not on anyone or for anyone. And that’s what makes the grief of loss when it comes to a person existing without you so painful.

Now eventually, you find yourself trying to step out of the box. “Hey I want to watch this new show (which isn’t actually new)”. And that’s like a very hard thing but something about this show makes you feel safe. Not because it’s a safe show, but because you look next to you for the person who would push you to watch something outside of the five shows you always watch. It’s almost like the person you wished was here, is telling you to go on and live. And unlike most people, I think this person would’ve gone “You know, you did the best thing you could’ve, and it’s a shame people can’t see the sacrifices you’ve made in the last eight months”. But this show, that I wildly got up one day and chose to watch, on my friend’s couch, with one of my dogs - 10 years after my near death experience - 20 years after the start of this blog…I don’t know. Nobody is there. It’s just me and my dog.

Grief is what happens when you feel like you’re always there for your friends but always a problem when you need them. Grief is what happens when you’re suffering for the fucking gazzilllionth time…and you’re not asking for anything, just a place to vocalize, but like a very beautiful church with a disgusting secret, everything seems to come back to you. What you should and shouldn’t do, where you should be, who you should be fucking, what job you should be doing, what you shouln’t have done, what you should’ve done, what fucking beef jerky flavor you should’ve bought, how you should’ve saved your money and not given $20 to the homeless guy outside…

I used to be such a cunty, mouthy person. And one day, I stopped. I enjoyed a notebook, movies by myself, people watching, fancy bars I didn’t belong in, going to after hours and reading the books before introducing myself and that got beaten out of me over time. That’s a form of grief. To realize everyone around you needs to be seen. And you just want to turn around on the dock on the Esplanade and fall in. Grief is realizing how you ended up here after all these years. Grief is also knowing some people might read this and go “well I’m glad I stopped hanging out with her” or “ I’m so glad I stopped going to the club”, congratulations. You’re speculating on a life you put down while simultaneously stressing over your own life. Just because you stopped doing one thing doesn’t mean you’re better than somebody else. I really mean that.

Every time someone leaves, a piece of me leaves with them. And that’s OK with me. I like having that connection. I like seeing those people in my dreams. They can come visit whenever they want. I just know, as one last piece of advice to those of you dealing with grief - loss by death, perhaps loss of a pregnancy, a friendship, end of a relationship, a job that didn’t pan out, shit even losing a favorite sweatshirt to an ex-girlfriend…grief is more dangerous than heroin. I really mean that, though I apologize if me saying so offends anyone. It opens you up to a world of anger and spite and hatred and sadness that takes away from what life could possibly be for you. YOU are HERE. You can do anything you want to do. It’s nobody’s fault in terms of the negative shit that happens. There may have been catalysts, sure. But don’t let that negative emotion or energy prevent you for your time here on Earth. It’s not always pretty or pleasant, but when it’s a beautiful spring day and you feel like you can float into the sky, that’s your’s to enjoy, so enjoy it.

On that note, our charity for this post is: Training Rats to Save Lives. They are a charity that trains rats to save lives from abandoned land mines and tuberculosis. Rats, much like the little mouse at the door, are very intelligent and get a bad wrap. You can learn more by clinking the link…and visiting your local library.