I have a brown binder stuffed full of papers with poetry and other writings. I started writing when I was a freshman in high school. I would say ninety percent of my poems are from a place of darkness. During my darkest moments, I could write a twenty line poem in minutes. Words do not flow as easily when I am calm and settled on the inside, despite what may be going on externally. Writing has always been a way for me to release overwhelming emotions. It has gotten me through some difficult times.
The binder is very disorganized with torn sheets, folded papers, and not in any order. I look at them from time to time for different reasons. Sometimes I will have a memory of something I have written, and even though there are hundreds of papers, I can usually locate the one I am looking for quick enough. Other times I will open the binder with no intended purpose, but will be guided by my thoughts as I leaf through the pages.
Today, I intended to look for a piece that I had written about dying and my funeral, and I did find it near the top. I considered writing about all the people, about 35, I've grieved over, many if not most younger than me. I wasn't in the right frame of mind for that post. I found several poems I had written for a friend who was in the hospital. I decided I would save them for another post when I felt up to revisiting that pain. Then I saw a poem written around the turn of the century, so I decided to write about it in this post.
The poem written in 2000, indicates I was not well at all. As I am writing, I am thinking back to what was happening in June 2000, and I realize it was when we were filing charges against my father in New York for abusing my son over a six year period. He was indicted on thirty three felony counts. My son was extremely brave to stand up against my father, more courage than I have had my entire life against him. A special prosecutor had to be assigned to the case because my brother, now a family court judge, was part of the district attorney's office. My father, aided by my brother, tried different tactics to keep it from going to court, but God provided the means needed.
What is interesting about this poem that I shared, is it doesn't have a title, and my initials were written in the wrong order, crossed out, and rewritten correctly. I didn't look further to see if I had written other poems around the same time. If I find some, I will add them here. I wonder how I was so unsupported, while I was doing my best to support my son, and take care of my two other children. I am thankful my son is doing well and has always been so forgiving towards me for putting him in that dangerous situation. I didn't know. Nearly 25 years later, reading what I wrote, I know I survived through faith.
Maybe this post will help someone going through a difficult situation. I usually remember writing a poem, once I reread it, but this one, nothing comes to mind. The fighting, yelling, screaming, in the poem, had to be internal voices. Revisiting this poem really helps me to see how far I have come mentally. Through therapy in 2019, I was able to reconcile the pain that had tormented me most of my life. I still get intrusive thoughts, and anxiety is a constant companion, but I have learned some great techniques to manage both. Currently, I am doing great and I am proud to say I survived.
Psalm 42:11
"Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God."
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