You see, my husband was the writer. He, his sister,
and most of his friends were artists, musicians, writers, or other creatives. I
was the wife, the mother, and the friend. A person who could be just as happy
entertaining someone with my stories at a party, as I could be sitting at home
watching a film with my family. Somewhere along the way, I lost my ability
to believe that I could still be anything or anyone I wanted. I had chosen
my life, and my life was to be a good wife, a great mother and a valuable
friend. And, I was happy. Then one day, everything changed.
On February 1, 2006, my husband, Stuart,
arrived home from work and unexpectedly confessed his love for another woman. A
married woman whose children were friends with my children. I thought there must
be some mistake, a misunderstanding, or perhaps, he was having a midlife crisis.
But Stuart spiraled down into depression, becoming obsessed with this other
woman, and my perfect life began to unravel along with his sanity. I spent the
following year torn between my own heartache and trying to save him. Every day
I treaded lightly, juggling work, children, tears, and threats of suicide.
During this year, I kept a journal. I poured my
heart onto the pages because there was nowhere else to empty it. I had to be
the strong one for my husband, and for my two little girls. And so, I stopped
being a storyteller for a while. I withdrew from most of my friends. I was
needed at home. I had to try and keep it together, to make it okay, to save a
life.
On February 24, 2007, I got the dreaded call. Stuart was dead. His father said, "It's over." But it wasn't over, for me, or for any of us. I was a widow at the age of thirty-seven, with two young daughters, aged six and four.
A month or so later, I picked up my journal and
dared to read through it again. All the pain from the past year was there, as
well as all Stuart's letters. I decided to type up the illegible tear-stained
pages so that my children would one day have a record of the story behind their
father's suicide. As I began to type, more words flooded out and the story
expanded until I realized that I had the skeleton of a book.
Four years went by
as I worked for hours every night, the story growing and evolving as I filled
in all the spaces. Writing became a part of my healing process. There were many
times that I wanted to forget the idea of publishing, but something kept
spurring me on. It was as if the telling of my story was as important as
putting it out there for the entire world to read. Only after my book was
published, and I was forced to officially call myself a writer, did I discover
that another part of the process was to find myself.
Stories race around my head all day, every day.
They always did. I wake up writing and I go to bed writing. I wonder now, how I
managed before writing. What did I do with all these ideas? Perhaps my world
had simply become too tapered, and there weren't as many spaces for my dreams.
I know now, that I didn't believe in myself. I didn't know that there was so much
more to discover. I thought I was happy because I never questioned it. But my
happiness was challenged in ways that I never imagined possible for my life,
and in that churning, that profound and utter devastation and grief, I began a
new journey, one of self-discovery. One in which I now find myself, a writer.
Leila Summers lives in a tiny country village
in South Africa with her two daughters and entourage of pets. She spends her
days reading, writing and dreaming. Leila has just started writing her second book, which she hopes to publish in early
2014.
eBook on Amazon - http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0062EIRAI
Blog – www.leilasummers.co.za/blog
