Recently in Poetry Category

I stand by the road
Watching lives go by
Trapped in a world
Without knowing why

Too scared to love
To believe, to soar
Afraid to find out
What's behind the locked door

Alone in the dark
Being called from outside
Hearing the footsteps
There's no place to hide

Living with memories
Of many long years
Longing to breathe
Without drowning in tears

Not all of the demons
Are locked up in hell
I carry some with me
They know me so well

I try to be strong
To outgrow the past
Feeling the pain
How long will it last?

This was written in the early 1990s. I don't have much of a memory of it, but found it saved in some old files. I think it's relevant today because I have walked through much of what is discussed in the poem. There is so much that is still so hard, but I'm not "locked up" anymore, even though it often will feel that way. The question at the end screams out at me: "How long will it last?" I think in many ways it will last forever.

I have been quiet for the past couple of weeks. I have not posted here. Nor have I read the blogs I follow (even though the number I follow has been reduced recently so that I could be more engaged in what I'm reading). I have also cut back on going to therapy.

I have been embroiled in a bit of a personal crisis unrelated to the issues I bring up here. I was going to write about it all, but that did not feel safe. Suffice it to say that my family (wife and kids) has had to deal with an enormous boundary violation and I have been working hard to protect them. What happened was not terribly surprising. But, in the end, my family is in a far safer place. And I am having to deal with a little bit of internal fallout.

So after I decided not to write the details of what I have been going through lately, I started thinking about some of the topics I could discuss here. I have approximately 30 substantive "articles" I'd like to flesh out. These include sex and re-enacting abuse, stigma of the diagnosis of DID, and issues facing male child abuse survivors. But, those are all for another day.

In my cache of materials, I have meaningful poems, photography, and art that I can turn to when I don't want to or cannot write much. Today is one of those days.

Here's a poem, entitled "The Men's Room" from the early 1990s:

Like many poems, they have have huge meanings and use a minimum numbers of words.

Now onto read the blogs...

I'm trying to post twice a week here as that's important to me. Originally I was going to try to write something scholarly for today. But I'm just not able to right now, for various reasons. Some of you may know that I posted a musical piece I recorded the other day along with some commentary, but had to take it down the next day because it had a vocal track (alongside the customary piano track) and that, I found out rather forcefully from the inside, was too personal to share. I will post it again, without the vocal track, once I am able to record a slightly better piano solo.

Over the holidays, I found a cache of poems I wrote in the early 90s. I had a difficult time choosing which to post today. I know my last post was an optimistic review of where I've come from and what I've been able to accomplish. This poem is an 180 degree turn from that. It's not purposeful. I am not really this pessimistic. But lately I have been trying to get in touch with where I've come from, and I'm trying to connect the broad pieces of my life. I cannot forget where I was back many years ago, but at the same time I cannot be swept up by it either. This poem seemed to be the most appropriate to share, though I'm not particularly clear on why.

Here's the poem:

The poem is perhaps a bit controversial. I hope it doesn't offend anyone. I was not raised Jewish, but rather Roman Catholic, so maybe I am stepping over some boundary. I am not really sure exactly what I was trying to say. I can see the obvious meanings.

I am nearly certain I wrote this poem shortly after seeing "Schindler's List" in Winter of 1994. I remember seeing the film alone, and I remember crying for hours afterwards.

I wonder what you all think?

I was walking in the desert
Looking over my shoulder at the mirage we just passed
I looked up at the hot Sun
My whole body cried tears of broken trust

Then I looked ahead, what a mistake!
I usually just look down, watching each step
But I forgot that was what I was supposed to do
I got distracted and a little confused

For I walked right into that hole in the sand
And it sucked me into that other land
If you thought the desert was bad, you should come here
There's no ground to walk on

It's so unreal, yet it's so real
And it's kind of freaky
My head's over there, my heart's somewhere else
Oh, and there's an arm that just went flying by

I can see back through the hole I fell in
Someone's reaching in to pull me out
Do I grab on? How can I?
Do I want to come back out?

Do I resume walking in the desert always looking down?
Or do I want to keep falling towards the light?
But then I decide...
I'm going to end my life.

This also was written in the early 90s. I am beginning to explore what I knew and experienced back then as a way to help me in the present. As I wrote in the prior post, I'm beginning to understand that parts of me hold onto these views and ways of thinking even to this day; and that it's my job to help them heal and evolve. I think this poem reflects a certain understanding and conflict about the process of healing. It was a very dark time for me. Luckily, I am not consistently in this place anymore.

We did what he told us
He said it was for God

"Don't disobey!"
We knew what that meant
We would be disobeying God

"It'll be our little secret"
This is what we were told
By the priest who we thought was God

This was written in 1993. But, for me, it's very relevant today. It's become quite clear that parts of me have not been able to move beyond the past at all. That's terribly unfortunate and so inconsistent with the rest of my life. For so long, I have failed to accept that fact. I have to rededicate myself to these parts of me and help them heal. Right now, though, I feel devastated and broken. I will try to pick up the pieces and move on. But it will not be easy.

When I was a kid, I always would lie
If I didn't, I probably would have died.

Didn't know I had, for I tricked even me
Until I learned I was a broken mess of debris.

There were so many levels of deception inside
And all I became was a Jekyll and Hyde.

I worked to build a life from this mess
And, largely, I've met with a lot of success.

But lately the parts have gained more control
I feel like I'm getting a lot less whole.

"Who am I?" is a question I often do ask
And largely I feel like I'm just putting on a mask.

I don't know what's real, yet sometimes I do
So often I just say "I'll bid you adieu!"

I think that I'm driving, but really I'm not
It feels like I'm creating some giant fake plot.

Now I'm confronted with the truth of the lies
I now know that they portend my complete demise.

I struggle to be real, but what comes of it?
As I "get better", it just means that I split.