well-meaning friends won’t stop calling: “let go”
eyes shut, free falling, she cannot let go
fists closed, knuckles white, hold tight her terror,
scar tissue recalling, she can’t let go
fresh bruises others named accidental
great lies appalling, she’s forced to let go
written on her body in secret code,
firewalls installing, she won’t let go
she lets go, sleeps, lover’s arms surround her
dreams demons brawling, whispers “don’t let go”
she sleeps violent, wakes to safety,
shaking and bawling, she pleads “don’t let go”
away from danger, through Christina’s World,
paralyzed, crawling, she yearns to let go
I combined the previous two challenges. I’ve written an admittedly bleak
Ghazal Sonnet on the subject of the
Letting Go prompt which I confess stalled me for days.
Yes, I had trouble writing to the “letting go” prompt.
My brain refused words. My fingers refused to type. I missed the deadline. I chose a challenging format so it would feel like a math problem versus a poem.
Ultimately, what was pulled from me is this poem about not being able to let go of the past (quite yet), the difference between letting go and denial, and of redemption found in the safe circle of unconditional love, when we can lay down our shields and shelve the history of our wars, if even for an hour.
“Letting go” is something I am working on in my recovery.
I have Complex PTSD, which means random things in the present trigger bad things in the past, in a neurochemical process I can’t wish or will away (trust me, I’ve tried). The sound of my mother’s voice saying certain words, or at a certain volume, for example, trigger a full fight/flight/freeze/fawn response regardless of being conscious that my adult body is now safe from an old woman too feeble to try if she even wanted to, and she doesn’t. She’s grown.
For childhood abuse survivors, being encouraged to “let go” (which well-meaning friends do all the time) reverberates with our abuser’s
forced denial, of being forbidden to reflect on or acknowledge past events. It can end up feeling like “stop talking about it” or “let’s pretend it never happened,” those years you lived in mortal danger.
We survivors are, ultimately, better served when we can let go the burden, put the burning embers of past trauma down, and walk away.
But first we must take our trauma out of its forced hidden darkness and hold on to it for awhile, remind ourselves it is real, it happened to us, it is truth. We look at it, handle it, burn our fingertips as we dream of it and only then we can decide the right time to finally let it go.
I’m on my way to just such a day, albeit slowly.
The final stanza, pursuant to Ghazal rules, should reveal or suggest the poet. My name is not Christina, but I chose Andrew Wyeth’s iconic painting of a woman in struggle as my hint.
xo Wyeth Bailey
About Wyeth Bailey
Raging my mid-life crisis. Reclaiming my riot girl youth. Resenting my overdeveloped intellect. Wyeth Bailey is a pseudonym. You may follow me on twitter @DangerousSweets
View all posts by Wyeth Bailey
February 13th, 2013 at 11:05 pm
i am glad you are making progres you know…and working it…its not an easy road back by far and i hear you on being told to just let it go as if it just did not matter…
in you rpoem the lines that struck me were…written on her body in secret code,
firewalls installing, she won’t let go
February 14th, 2013 at 12:33 am
oh heck…intense emotions in here and powerfully written…really felt struggle and tight images like installing firewalls…really a felt write and thanks for sharing a bit of your story with us as well…
February 14th, 2013 at 3:44 am
The past will not be let go of so easily; it has a habit of creeping up on us and whacking us when we least expect it. Glad you’re making progress though. This is a fine poem, even though the subject matter makes it a very hard read.
February 14th, 2013 at 4:50 am
Deeply personal and well written. Thank you for the background information. You show well how “letting go” is complex.
February 14th, 2013 at 6:51 am
I thought your background info was very interesting If your situation was being in mortal danger then that is a very serious situation indeed.I think that Wyeth painting is very creepy. The woman looks disabled and brutalised to me. Poetry is a wonderful way of expressing feelings and
sorting things out. Keep writing.