I am in my early 40’s and have DID, fibromyalgia, Long Covid and other chronic illnesses, and a ritual abuse/mind control background (among other things). I have been actively aware of my background and working on recovery for over twenty years. I am a survivor of purposefully engineered dissociation created by abusers for nefarious purposes, and despite that, have been reclaiming my system and my life for a long time.
Before I was aware of anything, I began writing poetry in high school, and writing has continued to be a huge part of recovery for me, as well as art, especially about things that were hard, or impossible, to speak of directly, and as a way around internal communication barriers.
October Country: Entrance
You are wearing a long black hooded cloak and
robes.
Trees, maples and others, oaks, surround us- red and
gold and orange leaves blaze and lay in drifts. Blue
autumn sky. There is a strong chill in the air, and a
slight breeze.
There’s a feeling – you can’t quite describe or explain
It – that something’s not “right” here. It’s too quiet,
for one, but it’s not that…
You move forward a little and there in the clearing
are birds, like robins, only the red patch on their
chests are real hearts, red and beating.
There are berries in the tree, and splashes of red
that look like blood…
You go forward and to the right there is a small lake,
perhaps some vast ancient well. There are tumbling
stone walls on the other side, mossy but strong. The
water is still and dark and very deep, you cannot see
into it.
Footprints on the bank, human and other.
Goes deep (well/spring).
There is something in the bottom, under the coldness-
but we don’t want to go there.
There is scurrying in the leaves – something going on.
Where *is* everyone else? Where you are – they’re not.
We need to be in that landscape, but we’re not.
It’s treacherous, not sinister.
There’s a house at the edge of the woods,
cottage-type, Victorian, multi-storied, old. It’s
gray, the old weathered wood and peaked roof. There
are pumpkins, jack o’lanterns on the steps and the
Porch – there is something subtly not right with them.
You get the feeling that when you turn your head
they’re watching you, a flicker in the edge of your
vision.
There is a pumpkin patch, glimpsed to your left,
further along, and directly left is an old barn. Its
paint is peeling and it’s much more a brick-red, a
burgundy, then candy-apple. Don’t think about that –
you don’t want to go there.
You know if you follow the stone-lined path around the
back there are double cellar-doors: you don’t want
what’s in there, not right now.
The house is empty and yet not empty – a house full of
ghosts in daylight, waiting for something.
You wonder where everyone is, as you step into the
Parlor – the sense of “presences” is almost tangible,
palpable as a lingering scent in the air, ephemeral
as fog.
There is the sense that something is going to happen –
the house is waiting for it. It is haunted by the
things that are both past and future.
There is a parlor with a fireplace to the left – to the
right is a kitchen. You turn away, unwilling to think
of why, and instead follow the stairs up to a bedroom.
It is old and dusty and at the door you know it is
yours and there is something very, very wrong.
In the peaked attic full of lightly cobwebbed rafters
and old boxes, motes of dust glistening in the sun –
you look out the window and the world shifts.
It is night – there is a bonfire in the forest. There
are torches flaring along the path deeper into the
woods. There are scarecrows along the path – only
they’re not *really* scarecrows. . . Step back and –
everything is day. But the attic is not right – Can’t
tell anyone, they’ll just think you’re crazy.
Came here for a reason. Even if you get away you can’t
get away, ever.
Beating heart birds are some of the most “normal”
things in the woods. Don’t go into the deep forest.
There are black cats here in the fields that scream
like children, and the children scream like cats.
Nov 5, 2006
Twilight
I watch the darkness in my head:
unlike the night it does not recede
it twists and turns, burnishes itself in the sun
serpentine and glistening
to awake again at twilight.
It is strangling me
it is devouring me
as I am standing open-mouthed
watching in a delight of horror
as my flesh turns to shadow
memory to ash
thought and dream
evaporating like fog
in the morning sun.
Oct 27, 2023
untitled
trickle, drop
trickle.
drop.
weave.
doubt.
puzzle.
lost.
who am i?
who am i?
who am i?
broken. breaking. lost.
insane. (no one’s listening).
i can’t speak
i have no mouth (but for them to take).
i am alone.
nothing is in my head.
i am aching, here in the rain.
no one is paying attention
the ghosts are stealing the show again
the rhymes, the rhythm, the lost.
the loss.
where am i?
where am i?
where am i?
i can’t speak
the words are drowning as i speak
the drawers, the drawers
are full
water overflowing
petals in the wind.
break. broken. breaker.
loss, lost, taker.
torn, the seed heads spread.
torn, the thought lingers
skin torn across the lines
nothing exists here.
nothing exists here.
i am drowning as we sleep
i am drowning as we sleep.
there is no special code
no special destination
no earned absolution,
no pain
no pain
no pain.
i am drawing in the mist
i am driving in the breathe
there is nothing here
nothing to see,
pass by,
pass by quickly
in the night.
swallow.
loss. lost. end.
echo. chamber. notion. fate.
tumble, echo, dry, whisper.
there is nothing to see.
there is nothing to see.
<what am i supposed to do with this?
it feels too much, too lost, to something? to share.
but how can i write with no one to see (since i am not seeing)?
my hands hurt trying to type the words
my eyes burn
something is dying by inches
someone is dying inside
please pass the salt,
close the door
walk away.
i can’t put all the words together.
they’re all curled up in their shells
all put together
row and row of pale stones
row by row like little graves.
things can’t be what they appear
there is nothing to grasp onto
it slides by, time-
absolute and absurd
dark and bright
waves
waves
the scarecrow is rising.
there is no redemption
there is no beginning
there is no end.
word and word and word
speaking spoken speaker
darken death spector
spectate wander wonder
who is the mockingbird
who is the jay
who is the nightingale
locked in it’s cage?
epic
epoc
written
lost.
dream
dreamt
loss
lost.
the wire in the grass
the rabbit lingers
take the snare
turn the key
lock the screw
turn away.
turn the key and turn the lock
lock away
lock away
rock away
rockabye
rockabye.
turn the stars and turn the whyrl
turn the gyre free the words
words and wood and tongues and truth
epoc up in worden roof.
turn the notes upon themselves
no one is listening
no one is listening.
the lie in the whisper
the lie in the whisper
turn in upside down
turn it upside down.
is that like trying to breathe underwater?
am i really knowing how to swim?
i use metaphor and breathe and i am sure
i am sure no one knows me
no one holds me
no one hears me.
no one to decode this
(even if i knew, which i don’t).
the edges are getting dark again
it’s encourching in.
(i feel bitter, i don’t want to breathe.
i don’t want to remember this.
i don’t want to talk about this.
i don’t want to be this.
i want to turn away-
even though i lambast those who do.
i wish i had a space to speak
i wish i knew what words to use
i wish i felt there was somewhere for me.)
it’s all murky
they said cotton balls-
kind of like that.
maybe it’s saving something but
its tearing something else apart
please who am i left without this?
who am i left with this?
(i want the sun to turn on itself
i want to escape, escape, escape
please turn me round
widder-shins, turn and spin
widder-shins, turn and fly
turn and turn the whirling gyre
turn and turn the light away
open up your palms
like the stars fall out
like the sky
is a reservoir
draining
into night.
do not remember
the stars.
do not remember
the stars.
Jan. 1, 2021
BY OURSELVES | ABOUT OURSELVES | FOR OURSELVES | FOR EACH OTHER | 