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Posts Tagged ‘PTSD’

Inside the Narrative

Posted in inspiration, poetry, tagged , , , , , , , , on January 22, 2023| Leave a Comment » 

“Self-acceptance is self-love in action.” 
― Jodi Livon


INSIDE THE NARRATIVE

A few fellow writers gather at a coffeehouse
to share poetry. I read a narrative piece
about a nameless boy who pretends a painful event
has never happened. He hides

inside a malignant silence, innocence shattered.
His wounds leak into cells under his skin
long after the bleeding has stopped.

I pretend to hide behind the gender switch,
inside fictional scenes, and create places I have touched
but never embraced. My voice remains strong  
through ten stanzas

until a single unexpected stammer 
rips through my veneer,
thin as ice on a lake in early spring.
I’m afraid I could drown in my own metaphors.

I come to a moment when my character 
compares himself to a goldfinch
who leaves winter and enters spring
with bright warm-weather feathers. 
He flies onto a budding branch.
My character knows who he is again.

I recall expecting death one night when
I didn’t know shades of color would reappear 
and develop subtlety, strength, and shape.
Songs would rise from my dried throat. 

The boy in my poem grows through each stanza, 
speaking, becoming whole. Another woman in the group
suggests with a single tremulous glance 
that she, too, could tell a similar story. 
She nods and smiles. I prefer it to applause.

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One Mini-Flood and Many Mini-Changes

Posted in inspiration, positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on March 17, 2019| 1 Comment »

Soaked shoes on a warm register take the shape of a wild cloud on a gray day.

Little by little, one travels far. (J. R. R. Tolkien)

Day by day, the toddler grows into an adult. One word at a time the child learns self-worth, or not.

Little by little, backed-up storm water travels in wider circles from our driveway into our garage. I realize our problem is trivial. The clips of the flood damage in Nebraska provide enough evidence to prove our labor is minimal. We succeed. My husband and I discovered the ankle-deep water before it reached the basement or lawn mower. The car was outside, wheels untouched.

My shoes dry on a warm register inside. Muddied socks already swirl through suds in the wash machine—healing.

I don’t claim an immunity to tragedy. Nor did I miss near drowning, in a metaphorical sense. Many years ago, March 17 began one of the most difficult times of my life. Do I remember every detail? Not all, but more than I would like. All unnecessary to repeat. Each life’s purpose is to live in today. Eventually. Many people reading these words have their own memories to overcome. Ugly events arrive. They also pass, like the dark, dirty water my husband and I move toward an overwhelmed drain.

My husband and I work, together. I don’t believe any recovery happens alone.

Without friends.

Without help in some form.

Perhaps one struggling person will come to my mind today, someone who could use a call or a visit.

A thought. Perhaps now is the time to follow through on it.

Little by little…recovery happens. And one travels far.

 

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