Writing Is Powerful
Writing Is Powerful
I’m struggling. It’s difficult to admit, but I am and have been for some time. You see, my family has been paddling desperately against rough currents, encountering jagged rocks, and unforeseen weather dealing with the state and workers compensation to get my husband, Charles, the medical care he needs for over two years since his accident—the accident that left him with brain damage, sensitivity to heat and light, fatigue, and numerous other symptoms. He can’t go to a normal doctor covered by my work insurance to get a check-up because his condition and ailments are a result of the accident. According to the lawyer, the insurance will deny coverage. He also can’t go to the ER because they send him away after a quick evaluation with a prescription for a strong Advil for head pain without doing anything further (and believe me, we’ve tried). He hasn’t seen a doctor in months. Months. He needs a doctor and neurologist, but Sedgwick hasn’t approved, again.
I’ve been struggling most with the inability to help my husband. I can’t talk to his lawyer. I can’t talk to Sedgewick and Workers Compensation. But earlier this week, I realized something: I can write.
I can write a letter.
And writing is powerful.
Denzel Washington once said, “Writing is a weapon and it’s more powerful than a fist could ever be.” I can’t agree more. Every time I struggle, I find myself here at my laptop or with a pen and paper. If I can’t physically be a warrior for him, I can sharpen my pencil.
So, I began drafting a letter. A letter that discusses Charles’ accident, the mishandling of his case by agents, and most of all, the effects on our family of four. We have a three- and six-year-old. They want Daddy to swim in the pool with them. They want Daddy to go on a walk, a bike ride, and play frisbee outside. They want him to dance with them to their favorite song. They want him to watch them build a sandcastle at the beach and conquer milestones like my three-year-old daughter, Page’s, first strides on her big-girl bike or most recently, how she swam under water at our community pool to Mommy for the first time. It’s not okay. And someone needs to know—someone who makes the decisions. Because he deserves to not just exist, but live.
On Monday, I took a mental health day off from work. I was physically and mentally exhausted. And I’m lucky to have a manager who understands. I also spoke to a friend that day who informed me that I need to talk to people—to friends, to family, to anyone who will listen. I need to tell my story. I can’t keep it buried inside and stave away my frustration because soon or later, the panic attacks return and my tiny world becomes overwhelming. So, I spoke to my mom—who told me it’s okay to get mad and put my frustration on paper—and to my sister who lovingly said, ‘It’s okay to share all the feels’—and finally, to my manager—who gave me an extra supportive push. Of course, I didn’t need to tell my manager why I took a mental health day, but I’ve worked with her for over ten years and she’s wonderful. She cares. I confided in her that I’ve been feeling powerless and helpless, that the system is broken, and that I’m grasping my power as a writer and writing a letter.
She immediately replied, “That’s an excellent idea! You have a powerful way with words and I’m sure it will touch the hearts of whoever reads it.” And that’s just what I intend to do.
To all those reading this: thank you for reading. Thank you for caring. And thank you for your love and support.
Like Glennon Doyle’s said, “We can do hard things.”
With love,
Erica Mae