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The void is a stifling place to be.  It is strange how something so empty can feel so heavy... and how it can hold you down.

And a void, having no substance, can feel impossible for a foot to find a purchase... and it is hard to imagine how to climb out of it... ex nihilo, nihil fit (out of nothing nothing can come)... at least by itself.

But in the quieter corners of this void, you may find that your ears can pick up some faint echo... your chest feel some vibration... echos drifting in from the edges... voices of those who care.  These can be your purchase... as you have been theirs.

I would suggest just listening... the video can distract from the original meaning.

This poem speaks to us "Rising from the Ashes", and becoming something greater.

https://youtu.be/qb07yIAKyuQ

https://youtu.be/s0grWE1avus

https://youtu.be/8q182kWAhiM

It seems our backgrounds are very similar...

I know, very well, what it is like to have no sense of "home", "shelter"... or a "trusted embrace".

I have been extremely lucky to have married a person who is from a background where "home" is a very concrete concept, that can be trusted and relied on.  And some day, I hope to understand what "home" really feels like.  But, it is still foreign to me, even after 26 years of being in this relationship.

Luckily she has patience...

I have picked up writing poetry, again, after 30 years of only technical writing (I am a programmer, and I write instruction manuals for the applications that I create).  This as kept my skills sharp, but kept me blissfully away from any emotional content.

Unfortunately, hiding in this way, just forces the "demons" to surface in other areas.  The creative writing serves as a "safer" way to get some of this out... a pressure release of sorts.

My advise... do consider the source  ... read the areas that peak your interest in this forum... when you feel ready, write something... pour it out... then post it before you can talk yourself out of it.

It is impossible

It is impossible to pin pain down in words.
Words cannot stretch around
The aching, irrevocable sense of loss
that comes from a life lived
skirting death,
flirting with death,
taking death to heart
as the ultimate comfort.

It is impossible to fill words
with the feel of fear.
Thin words can never  encompass
the suffocating endless blackness
that comes when there is no human comfort to be had.
Long moments lost in panic,
endless moments spent running,
frantic for relief.


bluepalm

I also find it is "...impossible to pin pain down in words."... I will pen them anyway.

I look back on anything I write and feel I have, once again, failed to "bring it across"... as it were.

My overuse of ellipses... a place-holder for the sub-audible rumble that fights to gain the surface, but always fails.

My grandiose ideals that float in the ether of my thoughts, but never become full flesh in my writing.

My knowing the prose will all be judged harshly... left on a rubbish pile of someone's nightly reading... to be quietly forgotten... its flame having died for lack of oxygen.

Why try?

... here is why...

Even in its imperfect form, it is a hand reaching out... it is an exposure, yes, to pain, but also to a possible connection.  It is seeking that which is worth more than riches... the connection of a shared tear.

It is an entwining through a shared experience... more than that... a shared suffering... a connection that is very rare in this world... and fleeting at that.

... and there... it is gone again.

She could leave, and I would not blame her... I would not stop her.

I am sure I have given her enough reasons.  I'm sure I am reason enough.

And I fear to my very core that, one day, she will.

... and yet she stays...

I fight through a forest of self loathing to try to see some good in me... but I can only see what she shows me... and even then, I swim in doubt, thinking it is some wool I have pulled over her eyes... some mask she is seeing.

"Rejected by the mother... how can I be accepted by any other?", an inner whisper, as loud as thunder, lands home.

... and yet, she stays...

There is some light in her that allows her to peer into my darkness...

I forget, sometimes, that she sees me struggling... I forget she is not repulsed by me when I become angry... afraid...  primitive... only to reign it back in, and bath in shame... unable to look her in the eye.

I forget that she hurts, too, as she watches me fight this secret war.

... and she stays.

The Rosebud Reign


pun intended

https://cptsd.org/forum/index.php?topic=11643.0

Flashbacks from back when I was five... and my uncle died.  Some parts deeply relate-able...

When it has never been a part of your life, you tend to not miss it... and do not think its absence is of note.

... but when it is shown to be missing... and the floor-dropping effect of seeing the staggering hole in your life, from its inception hits.  You can be kind of forced into a pause.

The quiet before an awakening...

The last part resonates with me...

...and I wonder that
people approaching me
don't bump into it,
stumble,
and exclaim at my burden.

Sometimes when I get eye-contacted, I feel like the person can see what I am thinking... and everything that I want to hide.

I also am surprised they do not "...exclaim at my burden".

I have attempted getting this communicated through poetry/creative-writing.

I have found, conversationally, I lose people pretty quickly... they tend to have no schema in which to fit what I am describing.

With covert NCP mothers, abuse is so ingrained in the daily interactions... and each interaction is just short of overt abuse (see "covert")... you cannot sufficiently convey this to the "normal" people who never personally experienced this type of abuse.

I felt this in my heart.

Thank you Snowdrop.  I was trying something different... inspired by Bukowski.  Was not sure it it was working to convey the atmosphere and emotion.

I'm glad you got something out of it.

Glad I worked up the courage to post it... these poems have proven to be great tools for rooting out some of the things that creep in... those faceless moods for which you can never pin down the sources.

Also, the connection I feel when these poems resonate with all of you who read and respond gives me something I can't quite describe... but is healing.

I have said this before…

But not fully.

A mirror’s gaze is a difficult thing to hold.

The pain that stares back.

The emptiness that pulls at my very being.  I have to look away… or I may become it.

A mirror’s gaze is a difficult thing to hold.

The accusing critic, who sees all that I wish to hide.

”You are too weak… you do not have it in you… you will fail… you will be exposed… and they will all know”, the blistering tirade intensifies, until I look away.

A mirror’s gaze is a difficult thing to hold.

All that I have seen… all that I have done… I want to shatter this image in front of me.

I want to become something else… I want to become nothing.

I want to see nothing staring back at me.

A mirror’s gaze is a difficult thing to hold.

We are forced into a life… a life where decisions are made… actions are taken… before we have full reasoning to choose.

These are the things that haunt us.

These are the things that we are chained to.

A mirror’s gaze is a difficult thing to hold.

Looking into her eyes… seeing some shadow of what she might see as she stares back into mine… does she see me lingering in these depths?

Does she see… does she see my horror?

This thought eats at my core… and find it hard to hold her gaze...

A mirror’s gaze is a difficult thing to hold.

Yet I hold her… this mirror in my arms… and it terrifies me.

But the stranger in the mirror tells me to keep her close.  We will become better for it.

https://youtu.be/OzzKBxlIiEQ