Scurvy

A poem about attachment injuries...

I just sent my mom a letter telling her that my dad molested me. I was hoping I could die with this secret because there does not seem to be any real benefit to sharing. I sent this letter because I just published my first book and in this book I make references to this abuse. No matter how ill treated I feel, I just can’t stand to be so callous that I would let her find out through a random method. I hate being rude.

My father was a hero to a lot of people and there didn’t seem much reason to ruin that. I don’t get any satisfaction from the hurt that this will cause people. The area of the brain that gets satisfaction from protecting myself is completely severed. I fight on, in this mentally ill hell because my son needs me too. My wires are crossed for service and find relief in someone needing me. In a strange twist of irony my needs are actually important in this reality. My needs don’t just disappear because I don’t feel them. And if I don’t find a way to heal my son will starve for love just the way that I have.

I have had very little experience with people caring deeply about how I feel. My friends to their best but they mostly can’t relate or comprehend. But this caring that I need is a scarce resource reserved for mothers and children and that ride or die spouse that some of you are so lucky to find. My feelings are too big and poisonous to really be soothed except by the most qualified professional. I did find one. And it keeps the emotional scurvy at bay. And my friends who do understand, their drops of love trickle down and give me hope that the next cloud is not an empty promise of rain in this dusty drought.

Scurvy

My heart burns like an oil fire in the desert.

Slow

Smoldering

The viscous fluid of loss

Flammable and filling chambers in the unseen space where the heart lies.

Lit by the innumerable unmet needs.

The raw nerves of attachment injuries.

A squalling infant with no words.

Screaming into space.

And no one hears.

No substance for the sound to carry.

I pray for a miracle that I might find relief.

Life is mysterious, so I don't pretend to know.

The true horror of this scenario

Is that I felt a blissful pause of pain when he held me

That one stupid guy.

But then he left

I only got to see what I was missing

People hand out their advice like foreign aid relief packages that I have no way to prepare for consumption.

…just get over it…

..move on…

…don't be a victim…

…there are other fish in the sea…

But they don't understand that I was buried.

No way to get over just dig and hope I find life.

I am an earthworm

Segmented and un-kill-able by normal methods.

Soft, blind and repulsive.

But somehow being sustained by the gravel that I have no option but to consume for some kind of nutritious mineral.

Copious amounts of bread and water pap for this starving orphan.

The teeth of my heart falling out from emotional scurvy.

I am going through hell

I keep going.