Tag Archive: creative writing


dearest little ss,

for so long now, i have avoided looking at you. your eyes, they are mine, the same steel blue. the same pain runs through them into my soul. your freckles, i have them too. those scars, look here. see, feel. they are there, we share the same heart and the same pain. the same memories run through our veins. we are one, you and i.

i am older; i grew up. i can protect you now. i’m sorry that i couldn’t then. i am with you. i can see you. i can feel you. i can hear you. i am listening. take my hand. hold onto me. i will help you out of the darkness. i will guide you, protect you, love you.

precious one, you are not undone. your life has only just begun. look to the stars, look to the sun. i am here, little one.

logic meets a daggered end
experience begins
taking over mind and space
filling every empty place

despair convulses silently
hope reborn from tragedy
a brushstroke, art created
life penned, death suffocated

journey beyond the dark abyss
search out peace and happiness
leave behind old fruitless ways
breathe and gloat in life, today

One of the weirdest things about being on antidepressants is that my mind is stilled. It’s quiet. Silent. Gone are the deep, dark thoughts. The broken hearted cries. Banished into the abyss, for now.

I feel numb. I don’t know what’s worse- the mental and emotional anguish I was living, or the numb void left in my mind. Do you know what it feels like to sit silent for a whole minute and not have an entire thought cross your mind? I do now, but I didn’t before today.

Day three on medication, and the whirling and turning, the creeping venom of unfiltered thoughts has ceased. It’s an odd phenomenon. I feel weird. I keep waiting for another virus to interrupt this quiet space in my head, this empty place. So far, none has come.

Even as I write this, my mind is still, only thinking of the words in front of me. No interruptions, no landslides, no tornadoes ripping me to shreds. Just silence. What is wrong with this picture? It’s going to take some getting used to. I don’t know if it will always feel this way, or if this is just a nice break from the usual chaos in my head, but it is alien.

Another thought occurred to me this morning that I’d like to share in relation to this topic of “abuse” and “abusive” behavior. For many of us who have struggled with understanding these terms, one of the biggest “lies” we accept is that just because we do not have “many physical scars,” somehow that means we were not abused or our abuse wasn’t severe.

In conjunction with this, we also struggle because many adult survivors of child abuse do have happy memories of their families. We ask ourselves how can people who created such good memories in our childhoods also create such heartache and violence. There are no easy answers for the survivor.

We minimize the events of our childhoods, sometimes blocking them out all together in our effort to survive. We press our feelings down so far that the events become like pebbles in our mind. In reality, they are large, jagged boulders, but we have believed the lies so long that we cannot see the reality of our past. Often times, we are not ready to see it for what it was- tragic.

When we come to counseling and begin therapy, the process is painful. We are asked to bring in pictures of us as children, to confront and reassure our inner child, to dredge up the past bit by bit. The pain seems endless, robbing us of functionality for a time after each memory surfaces.

Therapists gently push us through this stage, for they understand what we cannot- to stay in this state of recovering memories would render us incapable of living. It is an ugly, heart wrenching process, and so to spare us additional pain, they prod us on week after week until we are empty of the memories, the purging complete. Only then can we begin to tackle each brick of our past and find healing. Only after we have acknowledged the horrors and owned them as our own, can we begin on the journey to wholeness.

Acknowledging the abuse happened to us, and not some detached version of our former selves hurts, because with this acknowledgement we feel, perhaps for the first time, the pain as our own. It didn’t happen to the child we were or the stranger from our past, it happened to us. Feeling this is both essential and cruel. The pain would be unbearable if it were not for the hope of recovery and healing. Admitting that we were abused and understanding the gravity of that abuse produces in the survivor both sadness and acceptance. From this place, we begin to move forward….

The office was quiet, but comfortable. A couch, two chairs, a desk in the far corner. Natural sunlight streaming through the window overlooking the trees. Peaceful. It was the sort of couch that people could lay on and drift off into uncharted territory. I could see myself there, one day. Instead I chose the chair furthest from the door, to keep myself from running. She sat in the chair on the opposite side of the couch and smiled, pen and paper in hand. And so it began….

An hour of my life, gone. And yet, redeemed. An hour of talking and listening, of sharing and being shared with. An hour on the road to recovery. Perhaps, the most peaceful hour of my day. I left feeling lighter, maybe almost hopeful that things could change.

Then something unexpected happened. Something for which I have no understanding. As the rain poured down outside our little suburbia style home, I felt a compulsion to run out into it. I took the hand of my five year old and pulled her out into the driveway, ignoring the neighbors. Actually, I’m not even sure I saw them at all, until after the fact, as we were heading back into the house. It felt cool on my face, it pelted against my bare arms and soaked into my dry skin. We raised our hands heavenward and enjoyed the fresh water as it flowed over us. I swung her into the air around and around until I felt dizzy with life.

It wasn’t the rain that made me feel so intoxicated, it was the rush of life through my body. I felt alive… and as I stepped back into my house and sopped the water from my hair, I felt thankful for that life. For the first time in a long time, I had lived in a moment, and it felt good.

Living can be painful. Isolation makes it worse. Being busy is a coping mechanism. Being stagnant is self-defeating. Healing requires effort. Pain requires darkness. Injuries require air and light to mend, and maybe a bit of neosporin. Hiding is exhausting. Blood is red. Depression is black, or “blue like jazz.” Happiness is yellow like a beaming ball of sunshine. My friend is yellow. I am black, well maybe midnight blue, but close enough to black. Knives cut. Glass shreds. Skin scars. Hearts ache. Eyes cry. Lips part. Voices possess the power of silence and sound. Music weaves light and dark, noise and quiet, rhythm and tone. Words hang in the air, thick like molasses, sticky too. Friends disappear and reappear like an illusion at a magic show. Blackness of night morphs to morning’s rosy skies. Scars toughen the soul. Life continues.