I thought it'd last forever. This maiden version of myself; this woman who was wild. I began my first poem on here about that characteristic. That part I missed about myself. A part of me that I had to domesticate. Do you know how many words I've written since that post? (not including this one!) 88,277 words on the topic of my past and random other shit I vent about on HIVE. I hate this gut pouring feeling that is seeping out of my bones. Writing about my past and healing these wounds is like vomiting. It feels like emotional regurgitation. Afterwards I feel better, of course. As I become a mother, I have to heal from my mother. I feel this healing happening here. And every person in my life that at one point represented her.
I am following the late Dr. Sarnos prescription for depression. There are a lot of people who talk about this issue A lot of people have used it for back pain; not a lot of people have used to for depression. However, his books specifically lays out chronic depression can be included in psychological roots and reduced oxygen to muscles and connective tissue via the nervous system. It was hard to see the protocol, or what people did to unleash their demons. Or what unleashing demons looked like. Now, those words are my own -- not doctor sarnos. I just was confused on the process when I read the book. I used to think that maybe someone smarter than I would understand; know I realise that the approach was not clear. I had yet to experience it. I also felt like I did not have any real substance of what some did to help heal these psychological wounds. I guess I am using myself a public example.
I believe this is a two fold problem. I believe correcting vertebral subluxation is part; and there must be an effective outlet for the emotions stuck in the body. If you fix these problem; secondary problems can fall into line -- eating healthy, exercising and such. I've had a difficult time understanding how to understand this bridge. How do you help someone who doesn't want to eat healthy; the the opposite problem -- what if diet alone is not helping.
My intention is to be an example of healing; the good and the bad. Yes, I am going to be a doctor one day. I guess that's what they call it in this era; I like to call it the healing arts. And I was drawn to this field because I had a deep wound that was not healing; and I couldn't see it with my physical eyes. I like to think of myself as a healer that first has to heal herself.
I realized I've struggled with the mother archetype; and it keeps repeating in my life. That it was a wound that was etched upon in my soul. It really hurt, and when I was sent away I felt a ton of pain and suffering. I am sharing a lot about myself and my past because it is with this that I hope others could emulate my healing process. I truly believe in the John Sarno's approach to healing internal wounds. I read this book a few years back; and now it is coming to use in my life. There is a huge mind-body connections. I have found that using symbols and archetypes help me organize my thoughts and pain. It is really healing using my own experience in motherhood and relating it to the past. There have been so many emotions that have occurred and arisen. I have needed an outlet? And I craved a public space. I craved a space that I felt that I could tell my truth openly. I felt like most of my life has been a secret, or that I've had to hide elements inside my soul. I am taking out those bullets and claiming them as foreign. The things they said were me? Were bullets. You'd walk hunched over if you'd be shot too. I am reclaiming my narrative. I am creating my own self image; not based on what my mother wants. Based on what I am attracted to; based upon what I like.
Dear Mother;
You were not my friend. You raised me as your mother before you; and her mother before her. Deviation was not your style; you stayed in your lane. Some praise you for it; I didn't. I wished more out of you, when you could not give any more. I desired you to be better, because I desired to be better. I gave you a hard time for being blind; I forgive you for not seeing me. I forgive you for not hearing me; I forgive you for being deaf to my cries. I loved you. At one time, you were my person. The only person in the world I wanted to see. I ran up to you, now I run away from you. Where did I come from? Who am I? I was certainly not you. I am sorry for being different, I am sorry for my fire that I did not learn how to control back then. I was a baby dragon blowing her flames in every direction, scared. I wanted direction -- you had never yet blown flames. You didn't dig deep enough. I kept digging.
Dear Iliana;
I made you into a mother; I felt you saw the inner me. The part of me that was something -- that could be something. You believed that I could go to the Olympics when my father shrugged off the notion as foolish. He knew better; he was a dentist. He was a businessman, you were a foreigner. His daughter kept forgetting her routines, how could she make it to the olympics. I believed that. I felt lonely being on the number one platform. I hated being the best; I resented it. I felt like it was the reason I did not have friends. I did not know how to relate to my other team mates. I insulted them, thinking it was playful and kind. They did not like me. Sam refused to speak to me due to my insults. I was deeply confused, I was kidding? Was insulting people not fun? She like my small body. She like how petite I was; I liked it too. And I didn't even have to try. I was just naturally small. You liked me. You really liked me. And I was your favorite. I loved being your favorite. And then I quit. I lost you. But I learned from Gymnastics that I really wanted friends. I really wanted a friend that I got along with and played with. I just really wanted to be a kid. You gave me the image of a high schooler. You helped me develop that aspect of myself. I wanted to be a popular girl. I wanted everyone to like me -- the way that you liked me. I wanted everyone to see the potential in me -- as you saw the potential in me. This is my goodbye letter to you. Also it is adios to the image that I created because of you.
Dear LK;
It was difficult growing up in therapy. When every ounce of your life was up for critical debate. When even your character was questioned for the simplest cry for help. When I was drowning, I was medicated. When I didn't know how to express, I was medicated. When they didn't know what else to do, I was sent away. It was difficult growing up in therapy. It was confusing when you realized the experts were just people; when you realize they don't know anything much at all. It was traumatizing when my story was ripped from my hands, because someone said I was going to die. How could I ever trust myself? Even with my own life?
The night I got sent away I felt a deep betrayal. A knife was stabbed into my gut by the people I trusted the most. I stood before you bleeding; you could not see the knife wound. I stood before you sobbing; you could not see the trauma the system had put on me. Did you see the wound you help perpetuate? Did you see the wound that widened? Did you see what I went through because of the experts? I was a rich kid in a system; not much different than those in foster care. I sinned; I was punished. The system left little room for communication between the people I needed most. The people who I needed to fill that hole, disappeared -- for my own good. To help me -- they left me. As a teen, that was confusing; I was confused. Even to this day, if I get upset at my father it's, "Do you need to talk to Lisa about this?" You were my families therapist; you were my families external mother, paid. When was I going to learn how to talk to my family without a hired mediator? At what point are the kids cut off and grow up? At what point was this help, unhelpful? I was placed in a system paid to protect me. I was placed in a system that stabbed me with more knifes. And in the dark, when I was alone -- this is where I saw myself, bleeding and hunched over. I had to take out the knives, I had to take out the thorns, I had to take out the bullets. And sew up the wounds, and sew up the tears. I was inside a household that knifed me, I was inside a system that hacked me up; I alone could put back together fragments of broken skin. I could no longer live in delusion that the knives did not exist. Or they weren't "that bad".
Dear Midwife;
You empowered me to create my own truth. You empowered me to go on the journey into motherhood alone; that to wonder through the portal of life was important. Once that portal open; I realised that control was an illusion. I loved you; I resented you; I morned myself and who I once was. You knew me last, you knew me up until the moment I died. I was a submissive maid. I have grown into a mother. I have removed the thorns that were once plunged into me. I hopped outside of the circle of self-doubt. I have leaped through rings of the anxiety; never to go back. I did not want the oral vitamin K; I wanted a natural birth. I didn't trust myself; I trusted your trust in my body. I absorbed to preform; and ultimately I realized the cause of my fatigue. I took out the thorns. The wounds that were plunged into me, draining me of vital life force. I sewed up the holes, I mended the tears. I pulled out those bullet holes. I am better now. Thank you for telling me that I could do this; thank you for stepping away. Thank you for not being the perfect midwife; you were human too. You were not my mother; you mothered me. I did not need mothering; I am a mother, it was always inside me.
Dear Me;
Who am I when I take the knives out?
Who am I when I stop bleeding?
Who am I when I am not torchered in the pains of depression?
Who am I when I am alone?
I saw the knives since the beginning; I wanted to pretend they were not there. It hurts when you pull out an old knife, crusted over with dried blood. Some of them have been there for 13 years. I pulled out the knives because I couldn't survive with them in any longer. They were draining me of energy belonging to my son. The problem was; I didn't know myself as healthy? So I began asking myself to define my new identity; the one I created, not the one of my past. I am not owned any longer. I alone define myself.
I am my own mother; I parent myself.