Category: recovery

Reaching the Inner Child

If pain spoke
less with intimidation
more with invitation

then I might dare
to shuffle closer
attentive and open

Find a fear cornered there
set behind the tautness
barred vulnerability

Speak softly,
intuition would counsel,
approach with tenderness

I would behold
the extent of the injury
length and breadth of abuse

A child dwells in these spaces
believing she’s protected
lonely and alive

Neglect having brutalized her edges
she cowers and yet, curiosity and
hope still hold space in her eyes

I will sit with her in silence
match my rhythm to hers
settle on a calmer resonance

Pain, I’ll offer
is not your fault –
You don’t need to bear it alone

And when, or if
she sidles closer
I will hold steady

Ignore the stench of bleeding
the disarray of matted locks
the sweat of abandonment

And tell her she is beautiful
a soul created in God’s likeness
a cherished one

She’ll not believe me, of course
For that will take time
and the building of trust

But should I stay
soft and warm
and listening

One day I’ll hear her speak:
Would it be okay
if we went outside to play?

(Image my own)

What Saved Me

Legs, once burdened by resignation, now dare
Arms, once contracted by pain, reach out

Lungs, constricted by limitation, breathe deep
Heart, damaged by futility, finds new rhythm

Muscles, cramped and bullying, flex anew
And this flesh, previously tormented, glows

My body, ravaged and bruised, believed in fatality
My mind, turning its back on self, chimed concurrence

Only non-compliance keeps me alive
a rebellious will, graciously allowing
God’s higher plan.

(This poem is in response to a poem written at the height of my illness in 2017. The original is entitled Body Talks. Image my own)

Forgiveness Project

I light two candles –
one in gratitude for my escape
one for the souls of my captors

Forgiveness is not on the table…yet…

The first candle
I light with intention –
inhaling liberation
exhaling confinement

How long before my consciousness acknowledges freedom?

I light the second candle
teeth clenched,
unable to control
the tremor…

Is it futile to pray for the wicked?

This wick never holds –
A sign, I’m sure,
harmony out of reach

I will let mine burn a while
revel in the gift of light
give thanks, so much thanks

Then, purposefully
extinguish the flame
prayers carried skyward
by the smoke.

One day, the candles will burn
simultaneously, each flame
matching the light of the other –
equilibrium restored.

That’s my goal, anyway…
        …should I allow forgiveness.

(For Sadje’s What Do You See challenge.)


Stolen Identity

The woman currently abiding
within this costumed realm
is merely a lethargic version
of the once-vital, now oppressed
miss, whose identification
was stolen by means of
unsolicited adversity.

The focus of this recanting
is to invite a perspective
that not only restores, but
aids in the teaching of other
shadow-selves, that to reassert
original nature is more than fair.

(I’ve stolen Stolen Identity from an earlier post. Art my own)

Intangibles

Mother followed all the trends –
Scarsdale and grapefruit diets,
minis and maxis,
platforms and pumps –
reaching for an ideal
my child’s mind
could not comprehend

Father dreamt of a voice makeover
had flown his ancestral roots
in search of…what?
I did not know

I learned that men
were to be pleased,
and compassion
was a woman’s role
and it was folly to hazard
confrontation when alcohol
was in the mix,

Intangible as life was
I deduced that secrets –
the avoidance of scandal –
rendered women ineffective

and by the very circumstance
of my birth, I was tainted,
weighted by shame
destined to endure
pain as love
invested in
my worthlessness

Except life is evolution
and rage emerges
from oppression
and conviction
smashes the impotence
of ideals, embraces
the abstracts
of fluidities,

and merging out of shame
I see that struggle
is opportunity

and that rewriting legacies
is an honourable goal
and I do have power
in any given moment…

only wish
I had known it
sooner.

(Art my own)

Wasps

I didn’t know about the wasps
before I had carried my toddler
across the darkened room
laid her in a bed, crawling

Clutched her sleeping body
close to my chest, turned
to retreat, but the swarm
gathered there at the door

My cousin punched a hole
in a wall, unable to discern
the exit in a smoke-filled room.
The hole remains; she doesn’t

Strangers came to her funeral
drawn by the mystery of the girl
(name unknown) who died
such a tragic death, just 18.

How did this invasion happen
how was I remiss in noticing
that this house of potential
was being consumed by threat?

Unlike my ill-fated kin,
I knew where the door was
braved it to save my child
ignored the prophetic warning

Look back at the ruins now –
hers and mine – the patterns
of abandonment, familial
neglect, disinterest a plague

How we women try to please
carry our children through
the flames, choking on
disappointment… hope

A man lit the flame that killed her,
just as a man suffocated my spirit
threads of sanity carrying me
till my mind escaped the wasps

(Ink and watercolour mine)

Climbing Out

Bottomed out
sanity failing
nerves MIA
mind akimbo

Ladder building
walls of abyss
lack footholds
airless desperation

Rung one: faith
believe in God
believing in me
climbing blindfolded

Rung two: children
a reason for living
grasping strength
carving a path

Rung three: writing
ink bleeding pain
expunging futility
clawing for purpose

Rung four: friends
holding space
remembering self
blotted forgotten

Setting goals –
minimize focus
count progress
millimetre milestones

Surviving:
knuckles scraped
ego bruised
perspective altered

Rebirthing

It came in the peak of summer
that most optimistic time, when
sunshine equates with health
and bodies glow with exertion
fit and in their prime – it came

with all the fury of a winter blast
harsh and cold and unyielding –
wrestling me from my complacency
annihilating vibrancy, self-definition
de-leafed, rendering me raw, exposed.

I clung to the darkness, blanketed
against the harshness of light,
the impossibility of sound, or scent –
was de-shelled, ungrounded, ravaged
by volatile nerves and misfiring impulses

praying for the certainty of death…
but it is spring that follows winter
and in time, restlessness set in –
the dogged whine of hope willing
my mind to stretch, my body to try

spirit, tired of withdrawal, pushed
against the wall of dysfunction,
bolstered by a shifting acceptance
found roots in an unspoken faith
and I felt possibility, like a tiny sprout

reaching for the sunshine,
ventured out of my cocoon –
still alive! Redefining purpose –
still precarious, highly vulnerable
but optimistic for the return of summer.

(Rebirthing first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II March, 2018. Image my own)