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…
4/27/2002
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.
10/17/2003
You know what?
I think I might
(actually!)
be going insane.
No, really.
Don’t look so surprised.
Or maybe…
… you aren’t.
What do I know?
I’m the insane one.
9/12/2004
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.
EVER.
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!”
12/12/2006
Someone said
I look like my dad
today.
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.
3/13/2007
“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
Belonging
not belonging
Longing
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™
