Down The Gullet
I struggle with sharing this because the stigmatism around suicide is that one is always susceptible to trying again. It is an over generalization that silences the voices of those we need to hear from. The voices we need to hear are the ones that made it out. I certainly could have used the power of those voices in the time leading up to when I twisted off the cap of that Excedrin bottle and washed over ninety pills down with Johnnie Walker. It’s been nearly ten years since that day, and I still wonder -when the pain becomes excruciating- if death’s kiss would be better. And I don’t think that will go away and I am not ashamed of this nor afraid to admit it. I’ve been in pain for as long as I can remember, most of life is a constant reminder of what I never got a chance to experience: happiness without the fear it will be taken away at any moment. As in my poem, the important part of my journey was to make it out of the darkness: to focus on the light house that guided me to a safe harbor. I am not going to write some fancy tag line or slogan. There is no magic bullet. No 10-step plan. The reality is that you must develop the capacity to feel the pain and experience it in all its forms. Maybe a therapist will help with this, or a friend, a family member, a random stranger, a pet, books, movies. Whatever it may be, it is unique to you and there is no right or wrong answer. The safe harbor you need is somewhere inside yourself and you already know the way there and don’t be afraid to seek the aid of others. We are -as my first therapist told me- relational beings. There is no shame in what you are going through. There is nothing wrong with what you are thinking. There is nothing wrong with you.
Down the Gullet
90 tablets down the gullet,
The pain of the following hours a mirror
The pain of all preceding years-
The rendering of a life lost inside hopelessness
Loneliness and Fear
90 tablets down the gullet,
A miserable night awaiting deaths bitter kiss
The grim reaper: She-He-They never came,
But dawn did.
Now those who are close to me-
Ask if I am okay,
They really mean, “are you safe”
None to ask,
“Who are you?”
“What do you want to be?”
I need a place where the pain raging inside can be released. Is anyone there?
Rather than listen to my story:
They tell me, “You need help!”
They beg me, “Think of all who will miss you!”
This lack of empathy is because they are uncomfortable with my pain-same as me.
They tell me what I need to do because they are afraid because they do not know how to be there for me, sometimes both.
And so in the dark of the night despair from the terrors unseen chokes my voice: pain tears at my innards like a lioness her dinner. My hope is snuffed out like a candle meeting the breeze. I wonder if I can bare it any longer. Ruminating whether the unknown journey of death is less risk than the known. Somewhere in the dark the Grim Reaper beckons. All sound is gone now. Senses dulled. Paralysis has set in. Some call this a sickness.
Suicide is no sickness: my mind warning— things can no longer continue as they were. As they are.
That the path I’ve traveled, is ended.
I Ignore the voices pleading with me to make their pain go away. And instead write or say a few words of encouragement to myself each day. And when the clouds blow away-as they will I’ll find my voice, again. I’ll know what my truth is.
I cannot make the pain stop by ignoring it nor even ending it. I must feel. Go through the darkness and whence through I’ll see a new path where light abounds and dreams scare the nightmares away.
I will overcome what is in all reality my own warning me that things cannot continue as they are. I am not weak for this. I am not less than they. I just am. And will be all that I can even in this storm the darkest of moments.
-EJB
I Don’t Belong
When exactly the feeling of not belonging began will remain forever a mystery to me. Only in the last year as I became more aware of my body, mind, and soul was I able to identify this feeling of oddity that kept from fitting in wherever I went. Kept me from experiencing acceptance into the group. Perhaps I stopped belonging after the abuse: perhaps I was born to not belong. Whatever the truth-any journey to know its origin is a practice in futility- the reality is that I’ve seen the world from a differently for as long as I can remember. And in a way I have not identified others as seeing it-or have not been aware enough to understand I am not the only one. What I do know is that this feeling of not belonging is not unique to me-perhaps, you feel it, too. This is why I write: as a young child books, poetry, and music were my escape from the harsh reality I was subjected to. They freed me from the pain and suffering: from the abuse. And maybe by writing my truth and sharing you I can be a part of the puzzle that helped me. I might not belong, but I can find a place where I am wanted.
I DON’T BELONG
I don’t belong in this world.
Many dislike my difference to them.
I have found not one,
Who accepts me as I am.
Not the way I do
None have loved me despite it all,
Not the way I do
Like a ghost uninvited
I flit back and forth
The chill air in my wake
Haunting my every breath.
I know I’m not the only one haunted by this.
My home rests here-in my poetry
Revealing to you
You’re loved just the way you are,
Flaws and all.
You, too, should not feel so alone.
And, when those feelings rise inside you
Know this, dear friend, I’m right there with you.
Despite it all,
Like a friend invited
Cheering your every step
And in our wake a tsunami of change crashes
You belong no matter your difference.
No Longer Alone
Perhaps the wildest thing for me to admit is that I have spent most of my thirty years as an emotional zombie. I was not taught about emotions and feelings as a child. My own feelings and emotions were not validated, and when I did feel if those feelings did not fit the narrative my parents thought was appropriate or made them feel uncomfortable. I was punished, shamed, or even beaten for expressing emotion. As a sexual abuse survivor this just as damaging for my development as the abuse I survived.
As an I adult I have struggled in relationships expressing my feelings and attracting to myself those who are comfortable with their own feelings. As the messages from my childhood play out over and over it has made for some difficult times and unsuccessful relationships.
The thought for this poem came to me a few days ago while I was thinking about how to describe what it feels like to be afraid of my parents. What those feelings were inside me and how they are expressed inside of me.
No Longer Alone
Your mother embraces you and you feel love:
Mine hugs me and I am scared.
Your father speaks and you feel inspired:
Mine talks and I feel fear.
My childhood was a place of danger.
Beaten for my feelings:
Punished for my pleas of help.
Used before I even had language to tell.
My childhood a house of horrors;
I survived alone.
Alone as a star a billion miles away in space.
I write these words so that I am no longer alone.
-EJB
The Forest
A direction I will be taking this blog is beyond posting my poetry, but also my short stories. This is the first short story I will post.
In a society where the product of it’s advancement is over-stimulation, we do not often allow ourselves to feel on our own. How often do we do this in relationship? Certainly, in the family I grew up in feeling was not exhibited in a healthy way -a point I’ve made in my poetry and posts here. What I have yet to do in my writings is view this from a positive perspective. I am attempting that here, and in this case I chose the setting to be a former couple coming together for a walk in the fall months to talk about their breakup.
The Forest
A, very imperfectly shaped, leaf broke away from the branch of a tree in the forest. Twirling gently in the wind this imperfectly shaped leaf slowly fell towards the already leaf strewn ground. Fall was in full effect, the breath of winter felt in the breeze. The leaves had all changed color and were falling to earth ready to be recycled for new life. This particular leaf was on it’s way to join the family when a man reached out and gently snatched it from the air and placed it in the red hair of the gal walking beside him. She stifled a pleased smile.
“Please, stop that. We are having a serious discussion.” She chided.
“You’re the forest queen now.” He nervously replied.
“It’s been eight months since we broke up, please don’t try to make me fall for you again.”
“I’m sorry. I feel anxious over this conversation. It’s been difficult for me leading up to this day.”
“Why?”
“I feel like… I feel remorseful over how we ended. More accurately I feel guilty we ended.”
“What do you feel guilty about? I thought it was appropriate.”
“I know. I did feel justified in breaking up.”
“You broke up with me!”
The man took a deep breath, “I know how this looks from your perspective. This is partly why I feel remorseful. I didn’t give you the chance I wanted. And I wanted….” Tears began to form in his eyes.
She put her hand on his shoulder, “It’s okay, I’m listening.”
He wiped his tears and sniffled, “Damn, this is hard. I broke up because I felt helpless and running is the only way I knew to find safety. It was not what I wanted.”
“But we always fought. And we never resolved.”
“I only fought you when I felt invalidated or humiliated. Those feelings frightened me and I tried to understand why you would “make” me feel that way. I couldn’t understand why someone who loved me wouldn’t want me to feel loved. Then I realized that I was so anxious and worried you would abandon me that your words and actions were being interpreted as threats. And I did not feel safe to express my feelings to you.”
“Did I do something to make you feel unsafe?”
“Yes and no.”
“What do you mean?”
“You would speak to me or others in ways that I didn’t agree with and rather than express my disagreement from my perspective I ignored them or tried to get you to fix this about you. It was like I was playing tennis with you, but after I hit the ball to your side of the court I would rush over and hit the ball for you rather than let you hit the ball back. I wasn’t very team friendly”
“That’s an interesting analogy.” She said curiously.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I just hadn’t thought of it that way. I thought you didn’t like anything about me and you thought I could do no right.”
The man stopped, tears fell freely down his cheek and his voice cracked causing him to pause, “I’… I’m sorry for not validating your experience and letting you do your own work. There is so much good I thought of you, so much respect I ha… have for you. It frustrates me that I couldn’t tell you these things more often and that I couldn’t tell you my perspective and let you be autonomous. It’s against who I want to be and I’ve been working hard to correct this about myself.”
Another leaf fell in front of them.
“I too processed things,” she said, “When I didn’t feel safe with you I would retreat into a ball of anxiety and either go silent or forget things. I can imagine this made you feel excluded and inadequate. When I did this I was feeling overwhelmed and inadequate. I could have let you in and asked you for space when I needed it or asked you to hold me when I was overwhelmed.”
The tears fell from her eyes now, her voice cracked as she continued, “You made me feel safe and like I mattered, but when we would fight it confused me and scared me and I did what I knew to be safe: I retreated. I wasn’t very team friendly, either.”
The man stopped, “I need to sit down.”
The both sat on a log in silence. Watching the half naked branches of the trees sway in the cool breeze as leaves fell to the ground.
“You know,” he said as their eyes looked above, “I never actually minded our fights. They made me feel good that we disagreed and had our own opinions. I so desperately wanted to let you in and show the other side of me. Through no fault of your own I couldn’t get to that part of me.”
“You know,” she said as their eyes looked above, “I never actually minded our fights either. I always felt like we were being free to be ourselves. I didn’t like that we couldn’t seem to reach any conclusions after we fought. We just kept fighting. I wanted to validate your feelings and let you know you were loved even when you disagreed or couldn’t say exactly what you wanted to say. To let you in and show you the other side of me. Through no fault of your own I couldn’t get to that part of me.”
“What do we do now?” He asked.
“I think for we just reached resolution with our disagreement.”
“What does that mean?” He asked, the frustration rising in his voice.
“What is the emotion you just felt?”
“Frustration… you know, we don’t need resolution to mean anything. It’s important we resolved.”
“I think that’s a great point, and I agree.”
They both sat together in silence for a very long time -some say forever- two souls existing in the same space allowing each other to experience the moment the way they chose to.
The End
This Moment-Destiny
Growing up in a religious family I was taught that my future was pre-determined by God. That my life was a path mapped out for me and my role in my own story was to struggle against evil forces that would keep me from this path. I was a child who questioned everything from a place of great curiosity. If the answer didn’t make sense, I would dismiss the idea being presented. However, in my family -the way my parents’ choice to raise their children, there was no real option to question belief. I chose survival and cast myself headlong into making sense of the randomness of life by following a path created for me by a being I could not see or hear. The climax of this journey occurring in January of this year where I came face to face with choices that had placed me in a lifeless life. Choices I had abdicated to an ethereal destiny -much like the one I was taught God had for me. Though I haven’t been anywhere near religious for nearly an entire decade I was still living the by-product of that life and I hated myself for this. In two separate meditation sessions where I quieted myself long enough to listen to my inner world, I came face to face with my inner child. Upon that reconnection I was able to more authentically accept myself and learned to love who I was and the paths I was choosing to walk in the present and the future while allowing compassion for my past. This poem is an expression of that journey.
We are all on our own separate journey’s. Sometimes we come alongside others, sometimes we drift away. But always and forever you will be on a journey with your own self- yourself is the most important thing. Nourish and listen.
This Moment-Destiny
I looked around the antechamber of my own life-
The shock shooting through me like a bolt of electricity.
Peered into my future,
And saw the absolution of my past.
Choices made leading me towards,
Nothing.
Were they my own decisions?
Had I arrived at this precipice of fate,
Of my own will?
Those two questions haunted me.
My senses dulled from the sadness-
Blindness quickly overtook me.
The judgement of that moment-
Undoing of my own.
As if by instinct my arms reached out-
For what I cannot tell you.
Panic filled my soul!
Stepping forward, I fell.
The air, hot and stifling, rushed past my face.
Was this Hell?
Had the stories of the Bible been true?
Surely, this was all a dream-
But I did not awake.
Could not make myself wake.
The fall continued for some time-
No, I could not tell you how long.
Seconds or eons, the length matters not:
Suddenly, the air turned to a bitter cold.
Then, tropical in nature-
And in that moment, I came to rest.
Upon both feet.
In a whitewashed room.
My sight returned, slowly.
I began to make out a being-
Could sense their presence:
Familiar and foreboding:
Strength like a god emitted from them.
Fear began to shake me.
As my sight returned:
The being became clear,
And I could not believe my sight:
The stories of the Bible, remained, just that,
Stories!
My fall and all the sensations suddenly made sense.
Before me, in all the glory of a god,
Was myself,
Dressed in white, arm raised, pointing behind me.
I turned, hopeful for some guidance.
My brown eyes stared into the distance,
Straining to make out, anything.
A distant bright light blinded me,
I lifted hand to brow, shading the growing light.
Wondering, would a path appear?
None did.
Blinded by destiny-
All control lost; I began to rage against fate:
That cruel temptress of peace,
Who took more than she gave.
Always blocking the path forward,
Sabotaging the road traveled.
My rage grew as a fire roaring-
The more I tried, the greater the resistance.
Was I born cursed to a path of pain?
The torture of my existence my legacy.
My eyes grew wet with tears of loss.
I strained to see my destiny,
Yearned for, something-
Anything to make sense of it all.
I was here to guide myself!
Surely, at my feet a path will appear.
But none did.
The years ticked one then one more,
And I stood as a fixture, searching.
And as I was ready to give in-
To abandon all hope-
Then, another figure appeared.
Small and fragile, but full of life.
It took me a moment to recognize,
The figure was me, as a child.
My child ran to me and embraced me.
In that moment showing me,
All I was before.
My heart filled with happiness,
And my lips curved in a smile.
Then he pointed to me to my feet-
In front of me lay a path-
It had been there this whole time,
Of that I was now certain.
And in that moment, I knew my destiny,
Was built upon my choices.
My future firmly set in my own hands.
In an eyeblink I awoke,
No longer a slave to the current.
-EJB
Event Horizon
This poem was written from the heart, as the ink poured onto white paper tears formed in my eyes. It was painful to bring up feelings of unworthiness and unwantedness. Feelings I’d compressed inside my heart so that I did not have to face them. As they flowed like a babbling brook there was an instant relief -like when an infection subsides, and the lessening of pressure gives to instant relief. I’ve reread this poem a few times and the tears still well in my eyes.
Us as individuals are the only people who truly know who we are. No matter how long and intimate a relationship with another person might be, they will never know you like you know yourself. The harsh truth I’ve lived with is that I did not deserve the rejection, the abuse, the abandonment from a family that was tortured by generations of emotional immaturity. I did not deserve it in the relationships (friendship and romantic) that I sought throughout my life. Yet, life is not concerned with responsibility as much as it is concerned with accepting one’s path and making a conscience choice to be the best version going forward.
I can admit I have not always been the best version of myself -nor will I ever achieve such perfection, but I haven’t always accepted that I own the choice to change and to seek a better life than my ancestors left as my heritage. The most constant thing in all the known universe is that nothing alive remains in stasis: all matter is constantly evolving and changing. Humans get to change by choice. Embracing my talent as a writer, specifically a poet, and sharing them for any who wish to read (thank you for reading) is part of accepting my choice in my past, present, and future. If I can provide hope for just one simple soul by opening a window into my life, then my purpose here is accomplished.
I tried to share my feelings-
Show my darkness and my light-
Say when things hurt
Articulate when they filled me with light.
But all who listened turned a deaf ear,
Or, worse, left me cold and alone.
This, the story from childhood.
Played out over and over again:
That the star burning inside of me is too much.
That I am an ever present blight upon this earth:
Destined to be alone-
Abandoned, forsaken, even criticized for existing.
No one wanting to understand me.
That even those who say love me-
Will shun and ignore me-
Believing I harbor darkness
And they are afraid it will consume them.
I feel like a black hole:
None are able to see beyond my event horizon. I feel like a black hole,
None are able to see beyond my event horizon.
See me as a young child
Dressed in a red cowboy hat,
Chasing geese, those villains of the yard.
Pretending to rescue those in distress.
See a young man excited for trips to the library-
Where countless worlds of wonder abound!
Who rests his head against cold glass-
Watching trees whiz by on long road trips
Longing to be lost in the beauty of nature.
What is beyond my event horizon?
A man neglected and abandoned-
Whose will is to be seen and accepted:
For he has a sensitive heart and caring soul.
Able to inspire even the lowest of morales-
A wonderful soul who was taught to hide. -EJBFate Should Give
I wrote this poem in the winter of 08’. I woke up to freshly fallen snow lying atop tree branches and pines. They swayed mercilessly under the weight of the snow. The air was brisk, but not too cold. It was a beautiful morning, and even though I could see the beauty of the morning I was still filled with sadness that seemed to multiple being present in such beauty. The sadness I felt then has always been present in my life and I’ve not been very good at letting myself be comforted by my own hand or the hand of another. My ship of life seemingly traveled down a lonely river without a soul to be seen. The longing and sadness can be seen in this poem. I am posting it now because, after the last six months of facing demons and changing my perspective on life, I feel like this poem is no longer a ghost that haunts me, but reminds me of how far I have traveled in life and how much growth and progress has been made. I added the last two stanzas to reflect this growth.
Fate Should Give
The trees sway in pity,
As the snow crest ground portrays a false hope,
And the chill air proclaims despair.
Who am I to give in to this loss of humanity?
Who am I to grant pity her love?
Shall I fall into the black hole of despair?
Or weep away my childish cares?
Who can wipe away these feelings?
Who can show change the apparent dread of nature?
Whose features can fill my heart with care?
Whose words can make my blood feel alive?
Whose eyes can pierce my soul, and reveal the depths therein?
Whose touch can carry me away from this world?
Yea, must I wait in pity and despair?
Catch me when I fall,
This wait is more than fate can give,
Wipe my tears at night.
This wait is more than fate should give.
I waited.
I waited.
Waited for love.
Waited for a kind and gentle soul.
All I attracted were users:
Those who wanted me for what I gave.
Not who I was.
Then in pain,
Sorrow and despair,
I chose to show myself the love I so craved.
And in that cave of loneliness,
I was reborn,
A new man.
Given not to despair.
No pity to hold its renaissance fair.
Love for myself, my new creed.
Tears of a Poet
At a bar in North Carolina on a quiet September eve I opened my poem book and put pen to paper, but I could not find a poem. After a moment of thought I decided I needed a poem that explained “Tears of a Poet” this is what flowed from pen to paper:
Tears of a poet:
My life’s story, in ink.
As if a boulder lay on my chest-
Pressure slowly becoming unbearable-
Pushing breath from my throat-
The sensation rising upward -
Into quivering jaw-
Vision blurs-
Eyes fill with tears.
Then, a moment, brief and still-
Tears holding fast as if on a precipice-
Suddenly, those tears of a poet fall-
An orgasmic release of comfort.
Le petit mort - the small death
Those tears of a poet-
Now a blurry reflection looking back from a mirror:
Eyes red-
Cheeks stained.
Throat dry and heart aching.
Those tears of a poet:
Blinding physically and emotionally.
Sadness now a veil.
Those tears of a poet.
A veil?
Those tears of a poet.
A curtain?
Those tears of a poet.
A partition?
Those tears of a poet.
Hiding—what?
Reality?
Perception is a destination.
Tears which may blind wash feelings that bind-
Those tears of a poet-
That small death of emotion,
A rebirth!
Those tears of a poet.
Those tears of a poet.
Those tears of a poet.
Those tears of a poet:
Drops of pain,
Drops of love,
Drops of loss,
Drops of triumph,
Tears of a poet?
My life’s story, in ink