It didn’t feel good then. But as I began to write, there’s been an unravelling of me. My story came out haltingly. To my surprise, I had to prise it from my memory. Once again, I touched the darkness within.
and I went to write
dark emotions threatened the page
so virginal and pure
empty space stared back at me
dare I disclose my struggle?
On the street a young girl played. Her knees caught my attention, too large for the rest of her. She had the anorexic look, I knew it well but she was so young. What was she 11, maybe?
my words entered the unknown
the dark side
emotions felt yet unexpressed
buried inside me
swirling and misunderstood
until I feared them as much as I feared myself
I think back to my mother and how much I loved her. I see young girls at the pint of separation. They hold their mother’s hands frowning, pushing and pulling. Love struggles with the quest for freedom.
mama cried when I disagreed
she wanted the perfect good girl
not the tomboy who climbed trees, fought on the street
and rode a bike
mama loved me
more so in a pink dress playing hospital with my dolls
I made choices which lead me down a destructive path. At 12 or 13, I couldn’t understand its extent. The initial success paled under a barrage of ‘not enough.’ I’d committed and didn’t know that I could opt out.
I suppressed conflict becoming increasingly distanced from myself
life, a bounty of the beautiful
slid its filter over my perceptions
stress hormones skewed my biochemistry
rewiring my brain
Something had gone wrong. Vague discontent with my situationhad me working insanely hard to fix everything. I struggled to keep up but struggled more to let it go. The unknown so large and black loomed larger than, the known internal pain of self-loathing.
vaguely out of kilter
and more and more and more
irritability lies just below the skin
anger primed, ready to respond to the slightest scratch
released, the that torrent spews forth
doesn’t make sense
I sit here with my self-imposed challenge of taking my readers with me on the descent, the hiatus and the recovery. Exploring adolescent me through adult eyes, I’ve learned how deep and damaging the, ‘I am not enough basket,’ can be. Words still struggle to be written but now at the hiatus, I feel I have a lot to offer. I’ve lived remorse, guilt and shame. I’ve experienced patronising acceptance, ‘But you are a good person really.’
why are you there?
discomfort why did you make my life increasingly unbearable?
what is the cause of this cataclysmic cycle?
I’m squeezed tighter than I’d ever thought possible
to emerge integrated
finding the peace and love inside me
Writing, rewriting, thinking, walking, insomnia, planning, thinking I’m clear then unable to write a drop … I know that I’ve been lucky to live this life of extremes. For now, I continue to explore the insights the dark emotions have given me. Onward …
Kindly leave a comment or share your experience. I’d love to know I’m not alone here tapping out words into the ether.