Playing Fair and Being Kind

Now there’s a loaded question, eh? I found a poem I wrote during a particularly difficult period after my first, or inaugural, winter drive to the left coast in 2012. I’d returned to find my house empty of wife, furnishing, personal belongings, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. This poem reflects the dark nature of humans, certainly my darkness to be sure. I noticed it was written about five months after my return. Five months is a good while to stew on an event. Actually there is no statute of limitations on trauma. Trauma is individual and there are no rules to how long they can torment or remain inside, lurking in the shadows to reappear. So this poem has been sitting in a file waiting to be refined, which is what I did this morning. I found the poem and it has been growing darker and darker with age. I found it and after reading and reflecting I have decided to give it some exposure. I like it. It reflects a period of darkness and it accurately captures the acrid nature of trauma.

Another thought that occurred to me during this reflective moment is the commonality of experience. My experience generated these thoughts and feelings in the poem. Read by someone else the same feelings would be generated for a completely different experience, don’t you think? I believe so. I’ve run it through my mind visualizing various scenarios and they all seem to fit into the acrid setting of grief and unease. Sadness and regret seem to take prominent places. The odd part of the regret part is “regret what?”. I mean to say that confusion flavors the experience of regret and error. “What happened!?!” It takes time to let the events and instances of conflict, anger, bitterness, hurt to percolate and filter to a level that is manageable. In my case I can see, three and a half years later more clearly my contribution to the events leading to the conflict that caused the split-up and divorce.

Here is the poem. I probably will keep it like this for a while and then change a word or bit of punctuation some place down the road. That’s how writer’s do. All artists do this if they have the means and opportunity to change things. It’s normal.

Incidentally, the title is usually offered as PTSD. I don’t agree with the D part. It’s not a disorder for me. For me it is a normal response to trauma.

Peace out,

G. M. Goodwin 15 July 2016

 

POST TRAUMATIC STRESS

Memory has a claw,

Not its own,

A fear filled hook

Of the past,

Crawling nearer,

Fully equipped to clench

The exposed heart,

Shoving its nails into and

Spreading

Grief

Through

The chambers,

Annihilating the

Joy

Sheltered there.

G. M. Goodwin

May 13, 2013