Hope, a poem

By September 28, 2017Blog

He comes home.

I can smell the

Hospital on him.

His hair, long,

Dirty

But his eyes are his

Even behind his dark glasses.

 

Slowly,

Ever so slowly

He becomes part of life again.

He no longer scares me.

We do errands together.

Finally he comes into a shop with me.

He looks, gets back in the car.

 

This was a turning point.

He gets a dog.

His old friend brings him alcohol.

I slice the old friend’s throat.

My terror and rage

Something new,

Something frightening.

 

I no longer drink,

But my mind is a body of water:

Sometimes boiling,

Other times frozen.

I sit and stare at the TV

Until 3 or 4 in the mornings.

I am so heavy I can’t get to bed.

 

That gene,

The one that has caused

So much misery,

Is pulling me

Inexorably

Toward death.

I mustn’t go there.

 

It’s now my turn.

I go to the hospital,

The looney bin.

My son at home

With his father.

There’s so much HOPE.

I don’t have to die!

 

My son and I,

The two crazies

In our family,

Discover how to live

How to love

Many bumps and scrapes

But love and sanity prevails.

 

Thank you, God.

 

 

 

 

 

 

4 Comments

  • s & r says:

    Thank you for sharing this poignant piece of writing.

    I’m thinking of a metaphor. When I was a child, I had a terrible fear of the water, and zero trust in its buoyancy, I flailed around whenever trying to learn to swim, panicking and gripped by an expectation that if I surrendered to it I would drown. The stormy conflicts that frequently besieged the home I grew up in, and my youthful inability to understand that turmoil, may have found a symbolic expression in this terror.

    In therapy, I found a calm and stable space in which to unpack those experiences and understand them. Revisiting the chaos helped me learn to trust that there is a way out of helplessness and immobility. Using meds allowed me to manage my own thoughts and feelings when they became too challenging, like so much rough surf.

    As I continue to live my life, I am experiencing an ever deeper sense of safety and comfort. The support I need is available to me, and I can rely on it, can swim, to speak, knowing the water will hold me up.

  • Marybeth S says:

    ❤️❤️Hope indeed

  • Roberta S says:

    Love to you and yours…… xoxoxoxoxoxo. You ARE amazing, Jessie.

  • Mary says:

    Thank you for your courage. Your words remind me I am not alone, which is an extraordinary gift. Yes, there is hope. I am Praying for a day when we can each live transparently with our illness. Thank you for your courage. Your words remind me I am not alone, which is an extraordinary gift. Yes, there is hope. I am Praying for a day when we can each live transparently with our illness.

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