Ian drove us to the airport the next morning, a heavy silence filling the car. I felt like a shell of the woman I had been when I had flown across the country just two days prior. The hopelessness was a bleak darkness, a pit with no end.
Back home, I just went through the motions. Routine and responsibilities kept me from spending day after day in bed. Ian wasn’t able to completely cut off contact. But the few notes I received via email were short, and unsatisfying.
And then I began to write.
“You’ll write our story,” Ian had said to me. “You’ll keep us alive with your words.”
“I will,” I promised.
“And when you do, and you’re a famous published author, I’ll come to your book signing,” he said with a sad smile.
Reliving the beauty of our meeting was heartwrenching. But I did it. And then, as I felt my way through the darkness, I wrote about my feelings. And heartbreak. The words sat in a hidden file on my laptop. It felt wrong, leaving them there. Even if my heart couldn’t be free, my words should be able to be, I thought.
So I started a blog. Yes. The one you’re reading now. Creative Noodling was born of heartbreak.