I live my life through the words I write
I cannot assume
the judgements I cast upon others
are replicated
upon me by other people.
I judge others harshly
in anticipation
they too will judge me harshly
so I can prepare self-defenses
in advance.
But it is possible
that other people’s judgements of me
are different,
lesser than,
or even non-existent.
Imagine if they were non-existent;
the expended energy wasted
in anxiety.
For how long
have I been living on autopilot?
Living the same cycles
over and over again
without critical analysis
of my intentions, purposes,
beliefs,
values?
Was it a method of survival,
sticking close to what I knew
and could trust,
when so much beyond
felt out of control,
despairing?
Was it an avoidance of vulnerability,
of coming face to face
with my deeper self
and acknowledging the change I wanted,
dreamed of,
but did not dare manifest?
Now, with space,
the questions and reflections pour into me
like a hot cup of coffee
filling the mug,
reaching the brim
and overflowing.
I can avoid them no longer
as a pool of coffee collects around the cup
and I am not one
to let coffee go to waste.
I had a safe space.
I invited people in.
I realized
my decision was premature
too late.
My safe space dissolved
into an empty void
for months,
tainted by the destruction
I had invited in,
in naivete.
A piece of me broke away.
Remembering
if I made it once
I can make it again
and this time,
add an extra padlock on the door.
No one expects an invitation
so I disregard any felt obligation
to extend one.
Reclaiming safety
for my soul.
I started a new page in the notebook
with a title at the top:
‘What are some things that I feel CONFIDENT in about myself?’
I started a page on the left,
assuming I would need the spread of both left and right pages
like an open book,
to display my confident knowings
for surely, once I started listing,
pages would fill before my eyes.
My list consists of four bullet points,
consuming a quarter of one page.
The rest of the page-spread remains blank.
I cannot think of more to add.
Adding this to the docket of items
to discuss
at my next therapy session.
As the saying goes,
the past is the past
but at the same time
past can come into the present
if further examination
will help you to process
what did or did not
happen
and who you are now
for it.
Months away from the creative page.
The desire to make things
or express myself with words
evaporated and melted away
like the unseasonably warm weather of these winter months
kept the snow away
and prevented it from returning to stay.
I cannot find the words to convey the depths of pain and grief and depression and anxiety and ambivalence and change and interspersed joy that have filtered through and between the days of recent months.
I could not imagine what such words would look like, sounds like, spell like, write like or hear like, so it seemed worthless to spend any amount of time before a blank page, hoping for the imagining to come to me.
The thought of spending time before a blank page cascaded waves of fear, discomfort and vulnerability through every tissue of my body, maintaining distance between us.
I have felt vulnerability before, even embraced walking alongside it. But this felt different. It was vulnerability in a new form, a more terrifying form, and I chose to stay away for what I believed to be my own self-protection.
Last weekend, in the midst of an anxiety attack, I tried to color in a coloring book with pencil crayons, reasoning that the act of coloring would distract and calm my mind. Instead, my anxiety amplified. Fears of choosing the right picture (not too complex but not too simple), fears of choosing the right colors, fears of coloring too faintly, too intensely or beyond the lines, fears of choosing colors to live next to each other that do not complement. Questioning why I am limited to the colors chosen to be within this collection of pencils. Questioning why I need to adhere to rules and lines and systems laid out by an entity separate from myself. After ten minutes, I abandoned the effort.
I want to stand before a giant white canvas and throw globs of paint upon it, then wave a brush to spread them all around under the guide of exploration and curiosity. I want to get my hands messy. I don’t want to abide by arbitrary rules that tell me what’s right and what’s wrong with my exploration of self. I want to translate myself into colors and textures and images that words cannot always adequately capture within themselves. I am evolving. I am expanding.
I must believe
I am strong enough
to rise up against any tribulation
threatening to pull me down
and keep me there.
I have to trust
that I have the means within me
to face each new situation
in the moment.
It’s somewhere deep inside of me
waiting to rise when the time is right;
the knowing of what to do.
All I need to do is trust.
Trust that evolution
is a celebration
and a journey with no finish line.
I must trust that I remember how to do this,
and will remember how to do this
when I need to.
Can the triggering flashbacks
of a memory
hold beauty
alongside pain
at the same time?
I opened an old notebook
at random
from the stack beside my bed
on the bookshelf.
A notebook of poetry
from three years ago.
The page I turned to
contained words of
feelings
memories
metaphors
and people.
I offered to the page
a wistful smile
for just yesterday
I wrote about the same
feelings
memories
metaphors
and people.
And I thought to myself:
I need to let them go.
My mind feels full.
Full of characters:
their personalities,
their thoughts,
and dialogue exchanged with others.
Full of phrases
simple and complex
to live in stories
or essays
or poems.
Full of scenes
replaying in memoried fragments
requesting reimagination
and depersonalization.
To empty my mind
on to the page
requires a vulnerability
that, right now,
feels insurmountable.
Fear of pain, of exposure,
of inadequately capturing
my imagination
with words.
Acknowledgement is the first step.
I have forgotten how to hold my pen –
index, middle and thumb?
index and thumb?
concave or convex?
thumb tucked in or overlapped?
I write a line, or a word,
then my fingers fumble and fidget,
switch to a different position
then switch again a few words later.
What was once a natural extension of my hand
now lives in the unfamiliar.
Half the process now, requires learning
how to enable the pen to rest
within my fingers and thumb
to scratch legible letters,
never mind focusing my mind enough
to connect thoughts into coherency
to write at all.
I have been away from the page
for so long
the practice, the rituals I once knew
and depended on,
are foreign.
Long ago
(or what seems like long ago)
I began this practice
fumbling and learning and
constantly switching my fingers around the pen
just like I am now.
This is a chance to begin again
to re-acquaint the pen with my hand
and begin walking along a new trail
of the forest.
Dawning Words 