A tragedy of this magnitude leaves everyone speechless both in the office at the time of the accident and right now reading your powerful words.
I say speechless because there simply ARE no words. I feel your pain in my heart and my gut and I wonder, "How can he possibly move on from here?"
And yet you are doing it. It seems you are clawing your way back one inch at a time, showing up here on Substack, meeting new people and contributing to the community. Writing, healing (much slower than you would like probably, but healing).
There is no way of knowing where this road will take you but perhaps there are many other people who would be comforted to hear about the work you have done to heal from trauma. I understand your need to write fiction, that it had to be that way, but perhaps the time will come when you have a need to write non-fiction instead, or both.
I dearly hope you have someone to walk the path with you as you journey back to work, someone to listen and guide you.
Thank you for sharing your story Ben, may you walk gently and learn to go easy on yourself❤
I had excellent therapists, and lots of empathy from friends who showed up at the door to bring food when the wife came down with Covid at the same time--she'd picked it up from someone down at the mill. It was hard going for a long time. It was more than just difficult. I was never the type of person to show his emotion when I first got together with my now wife, but over the years, (45 next July), I'd learned to face my emotions. My father's death had come unexpectedly and hit me hard--as well as several of my close friends--so that by the time this occurred, my nieces were already calling me the sensitive uncle because I wasn't afraid to show my emotion. I held onto a quote I'd carried with me from High School English Lit class, by Milton: "The mind is its own place, and of itself can make a hell of heaven and a heaven of hell," or something like that. My fiction has always been an escape, and the emotion invested in my stories seems more relevant somehow. (I do write some non-fiction, but those are just stories about the mill.)
I've discovered that most of my writing is about love--love lost, love found; tragic love stories where one person sacrifices everything for the other. I don't set out to write that type of story, it just comes out. I seldom plot things, but always layer things with emotion. I write stories that are meant to be read and enjoyed while sitting in bed with a cup of coffee on a rainy Sunday morning. Take a look and open one.
Oh my god, what a gripping and emotionally wrenching account. That first sentence (all the more effective because it came several paragraphs in) in which you told us what happened just about stopped my heart, and I could feel your anguish throughout the entire piece from that point on. I’m not going to forget this one, Ben. I look forward to more sharing of our writing. Susan.
I'm still not back to work. I'd put a link to it up on Facebook, but his son-in-law asked me to take it down because he was afraid his wife would have a relapse as far as the trauma of the whole thing worked out. I was happy to oblige.
His son held him in his arms as he died. I wish I would've stayed with him. It's been a long process, but they're telling me it's time to go back to work and face it. I'm thinking it's time to go back to work so I can retire.
A tragedy of this magnitude leaves everyone speechless both in the office at the time of the accident and right now reading your powerful words.
I say speechless because there simply ARE no words. I feel your pain in my heart and my gut and I wonder, "How can he possibly move on from here?"
And yet you are doing it. It seems you are clawing your way back one inch at a time, showing up here on Substack, meeting new people and contributing to the community. Writing, healing (much slower than you would like probably, but healing).
There is no way of knowing where this road will take you but perhaps there are many other people who would be comforted to hear about the work you have done to heal from trauma. I understand your need to write fiction, that it had to be that way, but perhaps the time will come when you have a need to write non-fiction instead, or both.
I dearly hope you have someone to walk the path with you as you journey back to work, someone to listen and guide you.
Thank you for sharing your story Ben, may you walk gently and learn to go easy on yourself❤
I had excellent therapists, and lots of empathy from friends who showed up at the door to bring food when the wife came down with Covid at the same time--she'd picked it up from someone down at the mill. It was hard going for a long time. It was more than just difficult. I was never the type of person to show his emotion when I first got together with my now wife, but over the years, (45 next July), I'd learned to face my emotions. My father's death had come unexpectedly and hit me hard--as well as several of my close friends--so that by the time this occurred, my nieces were already calling me the sensitive uncle because I wasn't afraid to show my emotion. I held onto a quote I'd carried with me from High School English Lit class, by Milton: "The mind is its own place, and of itself can make a hell of heaven and a heaven of hell," or something like that. My fiction has always been an escape, and the emotion invested in my stories seems more relevant somehow. (I do write some non-fiction, but those are just stories about the mill.)
That's a great quote by Milton! I would think being a sensitive soul may be helpful to deal with trauma, at least it won't stay stuck inside.
I don't write fiction so I never really thought of it as an emotional release but of course it is!
I've discovered that most of my writing is about love--love lost, love found; tragic love stories where one person sacrifices everything for the other. I don't set out to write that type of story, it just comes out. I seldom plot things, but always layer things with emotion. I write stories that are meant to be read and enjoyed while sitting in bed with a cup of coffee on a rainy Sunday morning. Take a look and open one.
Oh my god, what a gripping and emotionally wrenching account. That first sentence (all the more effective because it came several paragraphs in) in which you told us what happened just about stopped my heart, and I could feel your anguish throughout the entire piece from that point on. I’m not going to forget this one, Ben. I look forward to more sharing of our writing. Susan.
I'm wishing you peace.
I was reading Substack Reads reader comments, and I ended up here. Wow, what a story! Hope things are better now. Peace...
Esh, that is heart wrenching!
I'm still not back to work. I'd put a link to it up on Facebook, but his son-in-law asked me to take it down because he was afraid his wife would have a relapse as far as the trauma of the whole thing worked out. I was happy to oblige.
An unintentional tragedy & I'm sure Steve knows that.
I hope putting pen to paper helps you.
Hugs my dear friend.
His son held him in his arms as he died. I wish I would've stayed with him. It's been a long process, but they're telling me it's time to go back to work and face it. I'm thinking it's time to go back to work so I can retire.
I know it's been long and difficult for everyone.
It's not an easy road.
His son was with him as he crossed so neither was alone, as it was supposed to be.
I hope you will retire soon.