Easy like Sunday – Another way to process pain

Some of you know that several years ago, I destroyed my journals that spanned over the last three decades. And then last year – or was it earlier this year? – I destroyed the contents of a huge 3-ring binder that held all my memories, therapy notes, etc. There are links about those things around here, someplace. But it’s “Easy like Sunday” and I don’t feel like searching.

Today, I would like to talk about something that didn’t get destroyed. Along with my dream journals and comfort book (again, talked about in here, somewhere… easy enough to find if you desire)… I saved my poetry journals. At a time when being forthright – even with myself – wasn’t possible, I wrote prose instead of journal entries. I would like to share a few with you today.

As I always say, I know not why these kinds of posts come to mind, I just follow my instinct. Someone needs to hear these words today. Is it you? Please let me know in the comments.

Finally, before you read further, I want to add a tiny trigger warning. I have included several selections that were written between 2002-2007… and most are… quite frankly, depressing… because my life at the time was… well, depressing. I was also angry, resentful and grappling with guilt and shame. There were absolutely wonderful memories in there, too – 2003, in particular, with my parents. Oddly enough (not!) I didn’t write much when I was happy. I was busy living life outside of blank pages in a book. And in saying that, I realize, too, that it adds an element of shame to say it that way. I should stop talking now. All I want you to know is that if you’re in the midst of a depression, you may want to come back later to read.

So, without further adieu…


You think you know me

You do not!

I am not at all complicated

You make me out to be complex 

I am simple.

I sit at the computer

Spilling my soul

You twist my words

to mean what you’d say

or mean

if you were me.

I open my arms to let love in

And sometimes

Hate enters instead.

Sadly, when I am wide open

All may enter in

Even my enemies.

Lord, stand at the door

Will you

Protect me from harm?

For I seem unable to protect myself

From my enemies.


You know what?

I think I might


be going insane.

No, really.

Don’t look so surprised.

Or maybe…

… you aren’t.

What do I know?

I’m the insane one.


They say: 

You’re too much trouble, you know

With your easy tears and torment

It never gets better, does it?

You’re a child, not a woman

not a mother, nor a friend

At least, not anymore.

You talk of pathways and sunshine

Growing, learning and changing

only words… always words.

You disappoint me. 

You always have. 

Because nothing ever changes.


February 2, 2005 (the day of my beloved Nana’s death)

And even in your last days on earth

When remembering wasn’t possible

There was a flash of recognition

“Sherry!” you said. “I like that name!”


Someone said

I look like my dad


I can think of no greater compliment.

For though our blood 

did not begin the same

It has ended that way.

He was a man

(so young)

when he met my mother.

And yet, he did something

rare, and beautiful

and loved me, too…

My daddy, my hero.


“I don’t even know you!”

I screamed to the sea,

My words drowned out by the wind.

I fell to my knees in 

a puddle of tears

No longer content to pretend.

The waves crashed below

The thunder above

My heart beating wildly within

I’ve known all along

(I refused to believe)

This moment began with my sin.

They say to forget

They say to forgive

They say that I’m worthy and strong

But if that is so

In this moment in time

I think I’d know where I belong. 

The cliffs are so close

The storm rages on

My knees buckle under the weight.

If I crawl to the edge

Let go of my fears

I know I’ll be meeting my fate.

This isn’t romance

on some far-away hill

where he’s waiting for my return.

It’s the life that I chose 

in a fairy-tale world

Why don’t I ever learn?

My final bit of prose, written on 4/27/2007


not belonging


for something

outside my reach.

These days, I journal … and I don’t, too. Only when I feel led. I keep them, too.

Some days, when a coherent journal entry cannot be written, I lapse into this kind of writing. Sometimes I draw — perhaps I will share more about that some time.

The bottom line, if there is one, is that there are no rules in how you process through your life.

It’s yours.

This was a little piece of mine.

I hope you found something helpful or useful. For me, it reminds me how miserable I was… and how much I blamed myself. Maybe I’m the one that needs a reminder about something, eh?

I did the best I could with what I had at the time.

Copyright © 2018 by Sheryl Nelsen Hutton/The Self-Help Whisperer™

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