Paper Cranes
I'm feeling disappointed today, because my migraines have been kicking my ass for the past three days (ever since I got out of treatment, though I'm not sure if the two are connected -- maybe the stress of coming home & being alone again is getting to me? I don't know. They have been getting better later in the day, which is not how the bad ones normally go; enough to where I've been able to attend meetings in the evenings & connect with people, but that's not the same as being surrounded by supportive friends all day long & feeling sheltered in a safe environment. I feel lonely now in comparison, yearning just for someone to even watch TV with me, and I would call someone, but talking hurts when I'm trying to recover from a bad migraine, and the people I met in treatment who understand chronic pain are still patients there, meaning I'm not allowed to contact them yet. All that said, it might also just be hormones, because it is that time of the month, and the weather changing doesn't help either), and I really want to write or vlog about my experiences in detox but I just don't feel up to it (too much thinking -- focusing is hard when I'm in pain), which is frustrating & hard to deal with as well (not being able to do what I want due to migraines is one of my triggers, especially when it goes on & on for days. It makes me feel so trapped & powerless, which only leads to me feeling like beating my head against a wall, self-harming, or using. On top of that, my migraines were so much better while I was in the hospital--I was taking half as much excedrin as usual, which I ascribed in part to them increasing both my propanolol & verapamil--so even if this flare-up is temporary, it still feels like a big let-down that they're worse again right now). I also wanted to go see my sister & the kids tonight, and despite the fact that the migraine has at least improved to tolerable levels, I know I will only worsen it if I go over there. I am going to try to take a short walk in a minute, but anything beyond that would likely be too much. So I'm pretty much stuck here doing a whole lot of nothing for the time being, and I have to just accept that & try to make the best of it. I'm planning to Netflix & chill, but unfortunately only the literal version. I got into The Tudors there, and I've also been sucked into Stranger Things, so I'll probably spend the rest of my day jumping back & forth between both.
Complaining aside, though, I do at least feel up to sharing the poem I wrote while in the hospital (well, the rough draft anyway. I don't have a copy of the final draft, but I'll try to remember how it went). Among the people I befriended, there was a woman who encouraged me to try writing again, and her situation inspired me enough to break free of the writer's block I've been experiencing for the better part of a year. As background info for the topic: she lost her twin brother to suicide, and that stuffed grief/loss-of-identity-as-a-twin seemed to me to be a huge part of what drove her to drink. The purple skies are a reference to an experience she had doing music therapy & using visual imagery for meditation, and the title is a reference to a dream she had once (leading her to think of cranes as her spirit animals, which sounds cheesy to some of you, I know, but no judgment here as I personally think of black jaguars as mine for similar reasons). I felt very insecure after writing it, but it made her cry, and she--along with everyone else in the unit with whom she shared it--told me my writing was good enough to be published, and that bolstered my self-esteem quite a bit. She also wrote me a note afterward, which said:
"You are an absolute angel. Thank you for blessing me with your talented piece of writing. It is rare when one has eyes that can see deeply into the soul, and put words to it!"
She also left a quote at the bottom by Walt Whitman: "I am bigger than I thought. I did not know I held so much goodness."
So, yeah, it turned out to be a really special thing, because it clearly touched her (she told me she would save it for the rest of her life), and it made me feel so, so good as a result.
Anyway, here it is:
___
In the beginning,
you started so very small.
Your soul swam freely
in your mother's womb,
protected & loved
as your outer wall
was painstakingly built
brick by brick.
(All the king's horses & all the king's men)
Ten tiny fingers,
ten tiny toes,
and a single beating heart -- crimson red.
Your feet kicked & stretched wildly,
almost as if you couldn't wait
to run out into the world.
To escape into joyful chaos,
searching far & wide across the void
to find yourself
and your place in this big, big world.
When you were born,
the very first thing you did
was open your mouth & let out a primal cry --
see, you were too young then
to have learned yet that crying
was something to hide.
That loss was something to bury
and forget, and that good girls
should be seen, not heard.
Your only home
had been stripped away,
and everything was so bright,
so loud, so close to the skin.
Nevertheless, you were never alone;
you'd emerged from your cocoon
with a partner, a friend for life --
fates intertwined,
and ribbons of love
wrapped around you like a gift
from God.
This bow was your birthright.
In that beginning,
you still had so many dreams.
Someday, you'd surely play games
of hopscotch across the stars;
rise up, up, up to the horizon,
spread your wings
and fly.
(All the king's horses couldn't...)
And then, one day, without any warning,
your purple skies were painted black.
Your dreams were all ablaze --
your spirit coated in soot,
sirens blaring
inside your aching chest,
begging the sun to come back, come back.
Don't leave me here all alone.
Your best friend was gone.
(Ashes to ashes, dust to dust)
This wasn't supposed to be.
Your home, this lonely planet,
was now missing
an essential puzzle piece,
and nothing could fill that gaping hole
howling inside your head.
Your arms reached out
for the warm, numb embrace of oblivion --
what choice did you really have?
It was better to feel nothing,
to cloak yourself in darkness
so you wouldn't see
what had become of your once bright,
now broken galaxy.
But in time you looked back
and realized
you had not only dropped dirt
upon your brother's grave,
but had cast your own ashes
to the four corners of the wind.
North, South, East, West...
(They couldn't put you together again)
It had become clear
that the past could never be erased,
only redefined.
And so you opened your mouth
once again
and let out a scream --
this time for the tears
you never shed,
and the dreams
which could miraculously still come true.
In the end,
you no longer swam,
but you were free,
and you were protected,
and you were loved.
Beside you,
flying amongst the clouds,
your friend's hand was still held in yours,
and you finally understood
two fundamental truths:
That there's no such thing as broken,
no such thing as goodbye.
It's time to open your eyes again;
tomorrow is waiting
in the wings.
---
Fin
Complaining aside, though, I do at least feel up to sharing the poem I wrote while in the hospital (well, the rough draft anyway. I don't have a copy of the final draft, but I'll try to remember how it went). Among the people I befriended, there was a woman who encouraged me to try writing again, and her situation inspired me enough to break free of the writer's block I've been experiencing for the better part of a year. As background info for the topic: she lost her twin brother to suicide, and that stuffed grief/loss-of-identity-as-a-twin seemed to me to be a huge part of what drove her to drink. The purple skies are a reference to an experience she had doing music therapy & using visual imagery for meditation, and the title is a reference to a dream she had once (leading her to think of cranes as her spirit animals, which sounds cheesy to some of you, I know, but no judgment here as I personally think of black jaguars as mine for similar reasons). I felt very insecure after writing it, but it made her cry, and she--along with everyone else in the unit with whom she shared it--told me my writing was good enough to be published, and that bolstered my self-esteem quite a bit. She also wrote me a note afterward, which said:
"You are an absolute angel. Thank you for blessing me with your talented piece of writing. It is rare when one has eyes that can see deeply into the soul, and put words to it!"
She also left a quote at the bottom by Walt Whitman: "I am bigger than I thought. I did not know I held so much goodness."
So, yeah, it turned out to be a really special thing, because it clearly touched her (she told me she would save it for the rest of her life), and it made me feel so, so good as a result.
Anyway, here it is:
___
In the beginning,
you started so very small.
Your soul swam freely
in your mother's womb,
protected & loved
as your outer wall
was painstakingly built
brick by brick.
(All the king's horses & all the king's men)
Ten tiny fingers,
ten tiny toes,
and a single beating heart -- crimson red.
Your feet kicked & stretched wildly,
almost as if you couldn't wait
to run out into the world.
To escape into joyful chaos,
searching far & wide across the void
to find yourself
and your place in this big, big world.
When you were born,
the very first thing you did
was open your mouth & let out a primal cry --
see, you were too young then
to have learned yet that crying
was something to hide.
That loss was something to bury
and forget, and that good girls
should be seen, not heard.
Your only home
had been stripped away,
and everything was so bright,
so loud, so close to the skin.
Nevertheless, you were never alone;
you'd emerged from your cocoon
with a partner, a friend for life --
fates intertwined,
and ribbons of love
wrapped around you like a gift
from God.
This bow was your birthright.
In that beginning,
you still had so many dreams.
Someday, you'd surely play games
of hopscotch across the stars;
rise up, up, up to the horizon,
spread your wings
and fly.
(All the king's horses couldn't...)
And then, one day, without any warning,
your purple skies were painted black.
Your dreams were all ablaze --
your spirit coated in soot,
sirens blaring
inside your aching chest,
begging the sun to come back, come back.
Don't leave me here all alone.
Your best friend was gone.
(Ashes to ashes, dust to dust)
This wasn't supposed to be.
Your home, this lonely planet,
was now missing
an essential puzzle piece,
and nothing could fill that gaping hole
howling inside your head.
Your arms reached out
for the warm, numb embrace of oblivion --
what choice did you really have?
It was better to feel nothing,
to cloak yourself in darkness
so you wouldn't see
what had become of your once bright,
now broken galaxy.
But in time you looked back
and realized
you had not only dropped dirt
upon your brother's grave,
but had cast your own ashes
to the four corners of the wind.
North, South, East, West...
(They couldn't put you together again)
It had become clear
that the past could never be erased,
only redefined.
And so you opened your mouth
once again
and let out a scream --
this time for the tears
you never shed,
and the dreams
which could miraculously still come true.
In the end,
you no longer swam,
but you were free,
and you were protected,
and you were loved.
Beside you,
flying amongst the clouds,
your friend's hand was still held in yours,
and you finally understood
two fundamental truths:
That there's no such thing as broken,
no such thing as goodbye.
It's time to open your eyes again;
tomorrow is waiting
in the wings.
---
Fin