Need:

the 4-letter word

of my youth.

To ask

for anything

from those who

were supposed

to care for me,

was to be seen,

to expose myself,

not only to rejection,

but to the

denial of need,

sometimes in the

harshest of ways.

Was there anything

more painful,

more shameful

than needing

love, care, food,

support from those

unwilling or unable

to give it?

Of having that

hope crushed

again and again?

So I shoved it down,

figured it out,

found my way.

And when

the starvation

of need

became so

apparent,

that even

they saw it,

deny it.

Deny it.

Because somehow

in that reality, in that

world of theirs,

the deprived

become the

comforters,

my child self

assuring them

that I had no

need.

So bereft

of attention

that those

few moments

of watching them cry,

murmuring that I

understood,

telling them that I didn't need,

that it was no big deal;

at least those few

moments

meant being

noticed

for a time.

And worse, to then

in my child mind,

take those

moments as evidence

that they did care, that

their tears were a reason to

push down my need even

further.

After all, I don’t want to make them feel bad.

Those moments,

elusive and short-lived,

leaving me even more alone

each time, sealing in the barren spaces.

Taking their denial

of my need

onto, into myself.

Now I look

back at the long

road of my life,

the twisting journey

of adulthood.

And I see it.

The denial of need,

still there,

now self-imposed.

The one-sided

relationships,

the self-loathing and

self-abuse,

the sacrifices made

on the altar of my

career.

The pushing, striving

going further

than anyone else.

Because I was

'committed',

'driven', a 'hard worker'.

But in new light,

it was the

denial of need

showing up

again and again.

I have continued to

wound myself,

not by having needs,

but by

denying them.

By sorting through

this mess, opening

my eyes to the past,

sitting with pain

day by day,

the dark root of

the shame that

has haunted me

all my life,

begins to reveal

itself in the

denial of need.

Sealed tight,

locked down.

For so long

this body waited

with only the

barest of breaths,

in darkness.

Waiting for

the blow to land;

to be invisible in plain sight;

the pain of daily exclusion;

cruel words that seared the soul;

needing but not receiving,

That was long ago but

it is the holding, the waiting

that is sealed tight,

locked down,

this body is bound.

And yet, could it be?

the barest of life

returning to this place.

Is that the stirring of a breeze?

The tip of a blade of grass?

A hint of possibility

in the air?

And so spring creeps slowly

back into this body

one breath at a time.

Making space, allowing

some semblance of

a bud to form.

To emerge fresh and new

from the black soil of

possibility.

The blossoming of

prayers long planted,

of a new way, new life.

Oh, the things that I have tried

to heal this heavy funk.

The feeling that I'm not quite right,

that annoying anxious hum.

Weed worked for a couple of years,

as a teen it calmed me down.

But eventually it turned on me,

causing anxiety & doubt.

Sugar was a late night friend

that helped me to get through.

but those cravings got so big

I couldn’t stop when I wanted to.

Drinking was another route,

those late nights dancing were divine.

But the consequences were awful

and seemed to get worse every time.

So exercise was the next big thing,

surely that would work.

Hours and hours of fitness...

I worked out until I shook.

I went to a meditation retreat,

seeking some relief.

And learned some things about myself

that offered some reprieve.

Therapy was a beginning,

it helped me to find a way

to show up in my relationships

But still I fought this anxious mind,

feeling unsettled every day.

And wondered what was wrong with me,

why I constantly felt this way.

Now I'm getting older

and come to understand some things.

I cannot think or talk my way

into mental health and peace.

My body is a living place

I've neglected all along

and underneath its surface

is a world where I belong.

I can go there whenever I want to,

to connect and understand,

to unravel those annoying problems

that I've built up in my head.

My body knows my story,

it has lived my life all these years.

It will never lie or overwhelm me

with speculation, doubts, and fears.

Perhaps it might sound crazy,

but I know for myself it is true.

my body is the sacred place where

real healing can break through.

A padlocked door,

behind it food

(but not for you)

air conditioning

(but not for you),

inside a sagging house

bowed with neglect,

faded yellow paint,

cracked window panes,

missing screens long lost,

doors that barely latch

let alone lock.

Fighting siblings

for moments

by the heat vent,

avoiding the cockroaches

scurrying under the bed,

creeping  in drawers,

crawling over counters.

Leaving a cold house

on early mornings

with an empty stomach

to walk the long walk

to classrooms

of people confirming

what you already know:

there is no fitting in here.

Sitting in hallways

listening to the others

with their various

classroom parties

and birthday treats

(but not for you).

keeping your feet flat

so no one can see

the black foam

worn through the soles

of your $2.50 shoes

from the dollar store.

sent home yet

again, white hair

betraying black lice.

Even the body betrays,

adding feminine

burdens with her

monthly calculations.

Scavenging nickels

for the tampon machine

at school.

Ever worrying

how this body smells.

I muddled through

that time, that place,

head down, shoulders

rounded, surviving

in the scraps

of their life,

with the muted

desperation

of a soul longing for

moments of relief:

kind words

(not theirs),

a sweet orange

(not from them),

clothes not ridiculous.

(donated by others).

Day after day.

week after week.

month after month.

time crawls by

under the thumb

of struggle,

unmet need

in plain sight.

This daily misery alone

would be enough

to drive a child

slowly mad,

desperate for any

reprieve,

even a bad one.

Never mind the rest of it.

The eruptions

of insanity,

spewing violence

and terror.

An arm (or belt)

coming down

again and again.

The hole in the wall

covered by a picture.

Shattered dishes sparkling

in the sunlight

outside the back door.

Fresh bruises (not yours).

The night time outbursts,

lying in your bed listening

to the screaming.

Jerked awake at 2am

to keep them company

in the night,

while they rage

and despair,

while they tell you

again and again

how terrible their

life has been.

That is

how it was.

For a time

I looked back

on those years

through

the gray veil of

detachment.

Telling myself

those sufferings

made me

stronger.

But as my own children

grow up around me

the gray veil thins.

And in my own healing

I find myself asking:

How did anyone

escape that

mind numbing

madness?

I do not know.

How did I?

I don’t know.

Tidal wave of pain

comes without warning,

sweeping away the details

of daily life. Leaving

only core structures,

and even those damaged

and shaky.

I look around the devastation,

seeing pieces of my life, still there,

but tangled, twisted.

I dazedly pull mangled habits,

relationships, responsibilities

from the rubble. Kneeling

in this mess. Trying to

re-create a life, a sense

of self from the

aftermath.

I organize one small area, and

think "Ok - I can do this."

Only to raise my head and

see debris for miles around.

Slinking heaviness pulling

me down, numb thinking

twisting my efforts.

Some days

just being here feels like an

accomplishment. But not one to

be excited for.

Simply that it is done, that I'm

still here.

The ache in this chest, the

desire to breathe freely again.

the nagging fear of yet another

wave.

And so I seek solid ground:

the knowing

that the earthquakes that

set these waves in motion

were not of my making.

Doubts, anxieties, anger,

sadness washing over my life

again and again are

merely a delayed

response to grinding

forces acting on fault lines

in another time,

another place.

That all this time

I've been living in the

aftermath of someone

else's dysfunction.

Healing comes as I

find safety in higher

ground. Stability in

new structures I build

with my own two hands.

I am no longer at the

mercy of these waves.

They will not

devastate me again.

There is a place that we can go

that lives down deep inside.

A place where pieces of ourselves

are tucked away; they’re left behind.

We buried them when we were young,

they were more than we could bear.

And so we pushed them down inside,

trying hard to leave them there.

That awful time when grandpa passed

or when daddy went away.

The lonely nights of wondering

if he might come home to stay.

The fact that no one would ever talk

about the screaming late at night

or that mom was passed out on the floor

after getting that DUI.

The knowing that the kids at school

were having parties for everyone,

parties that we could never have

our house was no place for fun.

And so we shuffled through our days

working hard to carry on,

pushing down the loneliness,

the wanting to belong.

Avoiding painful memories

whenever they came too near.

We couldn’t stand to wake up

all that buried pain and fear.

And so we lived our lives, moving

as we could through every day

and wondered why we were so depressed,

why we struggled to make our way.

Its easy to think we are the problem,

that its all up in our head,

that maybe things will get better

with the right therapy or meds.

But our head is not the place of hope,

where healing can be found.

Instead its just a winding stream of

anxious thoughts that bring us down.

There is a place that we can go

when we are ready to move on.

That buried place inside ourselves

that we haven’t been to in so long.

Our bodies have a wisdom

we were never taught to hear,

deep waters beyond our thinking mind,

a place we’re not meant to fear.

Getting there is quite easy,

we don't have far to go.

Just shift your focus from

your head to your body down below.

Awareness leads you down the path

to that place that is so dear,

your body has a message there

that only you can hear.

Elusive truth,

not ready to be faced,

wears me down

as the sea works on a beach,

sending in waves

probing, penetrating,

lapping at my feet.

At times gentle,

almost persuasive

shifting sands, nudging,

whispering its message:

"slow down a moment,

listen, there is something here."

But left unheard

and unheeded,

white, rounded

storm clouds build

up, up, up on the

distant horizon.

Eventually

unleashing fury

so old, so powerful

angry dark gray waves

hurtling forth, raw

need to be heard.

Commandeering

every grain of sand,

gutting every

seemingly solid thing.

Stripping away beliefs,

those propped up

perspectives

carefully constructed

when I was young,

now rubble moving

back and forth

with the tides.

Epic forces

exposing barren

terrains, layered

histories long covered.

Now raw, but solid

(as solid as truth can be)

begging for fresh eyes,

a fresh start.

A new perspective.

A bird! A bird!

It taunted me

As I lay sleeping in my bed.

Right there! Right there!

This bird did float

I was wrestling him in my head.

Oh why? Oh why

was this bird here?

He certainly didn’t belong!

And yet, and yet

I fought with him,

My arms battling all night long

Please wake! Please wake!

I begged myself.

This dream must finally be done.

I woke! I woke!

The bird is gone.

Time to start my day and move on.

I am drowning in _________.

I cannot make it stop

A persistent, agitating need to _______ something,

tugging, pulling at me.

Alone I stand before

the foaming wall of gray past

rushing at me

Craving crashing over me,

wave after wave

I hold myself against them,

As they batter me about

again, again, again.

I am drowning in _______.

The yearning is always there

But maybe that’s not right

Maybe I just can’t hear…

But I'm starting to.

There is something there

under the waves.

a whispered message,

an old truth.

I don’t know if I can,

if I can take it.

Maybe I can’t take the

pain of it.

What is the truth?

What I thought were

waves of craving are

actually waves of fear,

resentment, sadness, grief.

Old emotions, tensions,

frustrations coming back

to me in this moment,

stirring me up, pulling me

around.

Standing still,

with these edgy emotions

while not _________

feels like holding my breath.

Can I stand it? Can I

tolerate this stillness,

these feelings without

a fix, a little something…

No.

And so the waves come

back to me. I call them

back to me, abandoning

my self in this moment

returning to the fleeting

moments of safety

each ______ brings.

For a moment I can

breathe.

Now I understand,

Now I see.

The _______ washes away

this sense of

wrongness,

of panic.

Washes it

down inside me. Again,

again, the ______ washes

over me, through me.

Filling me up, saving me

from this intolerable moment.

But drowning me over time.

Messed up again...

Another bad night.

"Why do I keep doing this?"

I ask her.

“Because.... of all of this”

she says, gesturing

with both hands

over her chest.

She refers, of course,

to the swirling

bulbous tension

running rampant

through my chest.

The ever present

humming, buzzing

of anxious fear

from the tips

of my toes

to the top

of my head.

Pulling me forward,

down.

Curling me over,

around this turbulent

unsettled space.

Stealing my breath,

leaving me restless,

wanting,

thirsty for air?

water?

No, something.

Something to pull

me out,

pull me back

to a place

more bearable.

All of this in an instant.

Then a tiny whisper,

a casual quiet thought,

a gentle nudge to action.

The something slides down,

numbing my throat,

numbing my soul.

Relief, for just a moment.

Less than a moment.

again, again, again.

until disgust,

close-throated fullness,

bloated numbness,

descends upon me.

Resist?

It is no more

possible to stop

than to tell

the tidal wave no,

than to stand in the flooded river

and not give an inch.

Instead I live each day

swept along by

dark waves of suffering,

desperately wanting out,

yet terrified of the

stillness of shore.