Facing The Monster


Accusers and accused. There are many of these both in the news lately. Whose stories are true? What side do we choose to believe? And why do the stories seem to play out the same way each time?

At least that how it seems to me, but could we change the ending somehow? A woman comes forward to accuse a man of some kind of sexual assault from their past. The man is a high-profile figure so the story hits the news, but we all know that these stories have struck a chord because so many women have had similar experiences in their lives (including me).

Once the man stands accused, he usually claims he didn’t do it–in a very loud voice–until it turns out that we learn he did because other women come forward, or investigation into his past concludes it was true. So why then do these men say they didn’t do it?

I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately, especially with the most recent allegations which are particularly disturbing to me, and I came up with this conclusion.

Many of us hold parts of our past we would rather forget (me included); ones that when we dare look back on them produce feelings of shame and regret. So rather than look at them, we compartmentalize them or even pretend they didn’t happen. We may actually believe they didn’t. Some folks are particularly good at this skill and humans are quite resilient and can learn to adapt to their dirty deeds and go on quite well.

What happens, though, when someone comes along and opens the door to the shame that has been hidden away and it shows its nasty head. The obvious reaction would be to say: no, no–of course I didn’t do that thing! It wasn’t me. That beast has been hiding so long it has become unfamiliar, a part of ourselves we have chosen to forget.

But, as this creature stands before us a while, I feel it should begin to take shape and start to become more visible. Letting it out of the box to stand out in the open and taking a good look at it instead of denying it, can actually help defuse its power. Because ultimately it is a part of us, no matter how bad it was, it was something we did. The first part of letting go is admitting to something.

At this point, if the accused could then face the accuser and simply say: yes, I did it, it was bad and I’m sorry I hurt you–how would that change the story? Would we all feel differently? Could then the accuser introduce forgiveness into the equation? Maybe. Hopefully.

And then maybe the healing could really begin: for everyone.

 

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Poem: Redemption


A missing gem

among the living

never there to begin with

The universe figured out

the reality of the ending

before it even started

Then we figure out

how to plug the hole

that ended up

being left

Poem: Alone


Alone

is the silence of the room

each night

with the shadow light

and wearing

the blanket

like a shroud

to cover what’s gone

Alone

where memories scream

and eyelids darken

walking backwards

through regret

Alone

is hearing every sound

near and far

for the stillness

of it all

Alone

cousin once removed

from lonely

in a family

lathered with space

Alone

Quiet

Choice

 

A Poem For Mother’s Day


I heard a poem read on the Writer’s Almanac yesterday and it seemed so poignant to my life. It’s funny how things seem to float into our lives just when we need them. Recently it feels as though I have been having difficult relationships with past and current family members of mine. The communication lines are breaking down and every attempted discussion seems to break down into some sort of argument. This is never what I intend and I am not usually doing the arguing. Mean words have been said to me as of late by more folks than I would like to mention. Some that should still be considered close and one that once was very near and dear. Another me might have taken all this to heart and become very depressed or self-blaming. And the fact that Mother’s Day is tomorrow, my sadness would have been huge. But this is a new me and I am handling it all with strength and wisdom. The poem I am going to share meant so much. It’s amazing to me how someone can ┬áso perfectly express the things I am feeling in just a short piece, with simple words strung together! But then, that is the beauty of good writing. Happy Mother’s Day.

The Land of Beginning Again

by Louisa Fletcher

I wish that there were some wonderful place
In the Land of Beginning Again.
Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches
And all of our poor selfish grief
Could be dropped like a shabby old coat at the door
and never put on again.
I wish we could come on it all unaware,
Like the hunter who finds a lost trail;
And I wish that the one whom our blindness had done
The greatest injustice of all
Could be there at the gates
like an old friend that waits
For the comrade he’s gladdest to hail.
We would find all the things we intended to do
But forgot, and remembered too late,
Little praises unspoken, little promises broken,
And all the thousand and one
Little duties neglected that might have perfected
The day for one less fortunate.
It wouldn’t be possible not to be kind
In the Land of Beginning Again,
And the ones we misjudged
and the ones whom we grudged
their moments of victory here,
Would find in the grasp of our loving hand-clasp
More than penitent lips could explain…
So I wish that there were some wonderful place
Called the Land of Beginning Again,
Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches,
And all of our poor selfish grief
Could be dropped like a shabby old coat at the door
And never put on again.