Many of my friends suffer depression, and I am not untouched by it. Although when asked if I have ever been suicidal, well only once. When I was given medicine for the depression as a teen, the medicine made me want death. For me, i see it different usually. I have heard other survivors say it, and truth is really so much more than the words say. I don’t want to die, however on my darkest days, I do wish I had never been born. Days where the pain feels more than I am able to bear, when the nightmares are stronger than the dreams. Those are the days where I have to recount all i have done. Those are the days when my blessings must be noted. And those are the days when kindness is most needed, and when I am at my least kind.
Category: pain
No voice
Power stolen,Silence woven.
No voice left
To the soul broken.
Humanity removed,
Difference exposed.
Protesting the darkness
For sake of grasping the light,
Only to find the soul
Just too weary to fight.
A voice stolen completely away
Left by society silent today.
For though I speak clearly,
There is no one to hear me.
Perspective unique
I have been learning a lot about who I am and who I have been simply by talking to my twelve year old daughter. She sees things in a very straight forward way. She asks questions about life and especially about the parts of human nature that often confuses her. Her questions are occasionally embarrassing and often thought provoking. For years I fumbled through life because I was more worried about how people saw me or the way people would react to me to allow myself the freedom of being completely comfortable in my own skin. I kept my secrets; My religion, my sexuality, my survival to myself.
Part of the reason was because I was afraid. I spoke of my abuse. I was called a liar. I was told I was crazy. A heart can only handle so many blows before it closes itself off. Then as I grew older, I found that I cared less. I surrounded myself with supporters who didn’t care about those things which seemed so bad before. That helped.
I lost the innocence my daughter has too soon. I grew cynical because I needed a defense. I still clung to my desires to be a dreamer, even as I lived in a world made of nightmares. I used the ability to read to bury myself in places where the pain was not mine. I used the ability to write to speak with impunity my fear and struggle. After all, my poems didn’t have to be what I was. At twelve, I tried to run away from home for the second time. For my daughter, home is where she is certain of the fact that she is loved. I am proud of that fact. She still has many of the issues I had in dealing with her peers. She is very mature for her age, so she doesn’t understand conversation topics that amuse them. Also she has the same lack of filter I do. If it is on her mind, she speaks it. Yet for all that we are alike, her mind is far quicker than mine. She has a brilliant sense of humor and more self confidence than I ever did.
Social Media isn’t social anymore
I get on social media to enjoy the random bits of people that they choose to share. Then there are moments that ruin the whole experience for me. And I find myself wondering why I keep going back. The idea behind social media is wonderful… but the concept falls through thanks to human nature. Instead of compassion and attention, social media promotes discord and self absorption.
If I like too much of what is posted by someone then I am stalking their page. If I post a disagreement then I am disagreeing with every thing they post. And if I ask to be asked before being added to another group then I am ignored. I am back to wondering if it isn’t more trouble to be social than it is worth. I guess that is just me being grouchy….but I feel that there should be a middle ground.
Words are painful
So you say
Words can’t hurt you,
Such bravado to be shown.
Strength in mind, and heart,
Forgotten dreams,
Into the fury thrown.
For though the mind is strong,
The tongue is sharp.
Cutting the soul,
Slicing deep.
The pen is mighty,
No sword so sharp.
Each slice exquisite,
Laying vein
outside the skin.
Making me wish
The words mute
Again.
Speaking out and why
Those who know me know I am a very outspoken person. I try to be as honest as possible. Mostly because my memory is awful, i really would forget the lie. Easiest way to end up caught. There are topics I voice that I know make some uncomfortable. I refuse to be silenced because what I have to say makes any one feel bad. I was told I was lying when i first spoke my truth. Others suffered because of this. I was sexually abused. I was terrified of my abuser doing exactly what he threatened to do. So it took time after to speak. He told me no one would believe me. They proved him right. I was thirteen years old when I finally found the courage. So he was allowed to continue his life, and I was thought insane. He did to others what was done to me. They were heard and believed. He has been in jail for about six years now.
I speak now to take back my power.
I speak now because I believe the truth should be heard.
I speak now for those who may find comfort in my story.
I speak now because I survived.
I speak now because no one should feel insane for telling their story.
I speak now so that my abuser and those like him never win.
Personal safety
In a time of such marvelous inventions coming out, I am appalled by how many are designed to protect women from assault. Now don’t misunderstand. I am not saying women should be raped. I am not saying that the inventions are bad. I merely am appalled by the need for such items. I am a survivor. So I taught my children personal space and responsibility. I taught my son to respect women. I taught my daughter that her body is hers, and no one has the right to touch her without her permission. Yet, I know that there are people out there who would anyway. It kills me to know that someday she will not be safe. I am allowed the sadness that the world is not a safe place. I asked her what she would do if someone tried to grab her, tried to force her to do things against her will, and my beautiful twelve year old girl said ” I will kick him in the leg, then the nuts and I will scream! ” While crass, it feels good to know she won’t be a easy target. She doesn’t separate. If it’s someone she knows who tries to force her to do things or a stranger. Her body is hers. And I have made sure she knew it. I cannot help wondering if more children of both genders were taught that concept how the statistics of sexual assault and abuse would be? After all abusers seduce. They convince the child that even though the child is not comfortable with what is being done, that it is something the abuser is allowed to do. I mourn the need for the devices to “prevent ” sexual assault because I believe that if as children we are taught not to do or allow certain behavior… well as adults it wouldn’t happen. At least not as often. The ones who did at that point would be seen as deviants. They would then be treated as the criminals that they are.
Poetry normality
I am a poet. My children to my pride have shown themselves capable of great pieces. Now I should mention that I have not always felt good about my poetry. I have so often been told how depressing it was that I took it to heart. However, I wrote because it was how I healed. As an abuse survivor, I learned that I needed an outlet for the poison that was forced into my soul. Or I would not ever be whole. So I wrote to heal. I wrote for the love of poetry. So I would never be as good as Emily Dickinson or Edgar Allen Poe. I wrote because it was part of me. I did not force anyone to read what I had written. So if it was depressing…. that was fine. I could accept that. Then I was talking to a social worker. I mentioned that my poetry was considered depressing. Though I think she was being sarcastic, she said something that got me thinking. She asked “Isn’t all poetry?” There are various types of poetry that express different emotions. Discounting sad poetry is basically like saying that feeling sad is unacceptable. Poetry should be able to have a nice range of emotions. It is after all an expression of the poets heart in word form. Then someone else I care about said that his beautiful poetry was so sad. My response “Poetry is often sad. I’m told mine are depressing. Just because they are sad doesn’t have to deny their beauty.” Not every poet can write greeting card poetry or love poems. And abusing the poets whose writing causes other emotions is not acceptable either.
Personal faith in self
Each creative person goes through it. The crippling self doubt. One often expects encouragement from those in the life of said person. And it really doesn’t always happen. I’m not alone there. For me it’s just a baffling thing. I am seven time published. Four volumes of poetry, two children’s books and a novella. Still there are days when I wonder if my writing is any good. And since my family doesn’t seem to be proud of me and what I have done… it seems to wear on my confidence in what I do.
Then my bestie, my sister I chose, who is also a writer asked for my help. It doesn’t seem like much to a outsider I am sure… but for me this was huge. It felt like validation of my writing. My writing is such a big part of who I am… this felt like I was being accepted. So it got me thinking. Why does my family, my blood, not accept what I do? Really the only thing I can think of is that to them, since I have always been a writer, it is simply nothing new. So perhaps I am going to have to accept the idea that those who are not showing pride in me aren’t doing it in cruelty. Perhaps it is in ignorance.
So perhaps I should not expect the world to have faith in me, and be thankful when it does. Instead I should have faith in me.
Posted earlier on my personal Facebook
It really is the little things that hurt…and heal. Seeing affection and pride felt by those whom you wish were proud of you. Or who paid enough attention to see who you really were. So I end up feeling the little green eyed monster creep in. And then I self recriminate because I see myself as better than that. I don’t do my writing or my crafts or my art for the recognition. I really don’t. I do all of it for me. However, the primal urge for recognition exists in everyone. Then along with the self doubt, a few someone’s stood up for me. It heals the little cracks in my soul.
Pattimouse 