Creative writing has always been an invaluable outlet for me in the protection of my mental well-being. It is a chance to play, to experiment, to tryout and explore. It creates meaning beyond ourselves.
As a child, if not creating my own stories and games and poems, I'd lose myself in the books of other people's words, or their songs sung over and over, my favourites on repeat. As I grew older, I hid in plain sight upon the stage. Still not satisfied, I trained as a creative therapist. I found my place.
I wrote this poem in response to my own therapy and my struggle with finding my true authentic voice amongst the noise of my self censorship, and my quest to build the courage to hear it, to have it heard. Sometimes I thought my thoughts and feelings had the potential to be deadly. I am thankful to creativity for giving me a lifeline. The gift of allowing is what creativity brings.
My Therapist Needs an Ear Trumpet
Sometimes my words come from such a deep darkness within
They are no more than a whisper to your willing open ear
But inside they are a lion's roar, raw, wild
No longer containable or contained, unchained
Ripping through the fabric of time
Driving a hole clean through the foundations of my very notion of identity.
This tiny voice is not a tiny thing
Born of years of holding back, of holding in, of cemented building blocks of shame
Of a sadness sharper than a bed of shattered mirrors
This voice has grown wings since knowing you
Strong and powerful, they plough through traps forged by criticism
Traps now set through force of automatic habit
Sewn into the sinew of my skin
Flowing through my blood rich veins.
The sound is almost spent before it touches my throat, my tongue, my lips.
The last gasp of its death rattle is what you hear.
Light on your ear but heavy, full.
The fact that you can hear it at all is testament to your courage to stay with the silence
To wait, to bear it out.
There is no hurrying this voice
Fueled by a trillion echoing thoughts left behind like burnt out embers
Its journey full of twists and turns and false hopes.
Now stirred this voice can no longer rest.
Use whatever tools you can,
Listen, to the roar.