Poetry

In a former life, I was a poet.  No, I'm not published anywhere (well, unless you consider the chapbook from college that a local guy printed and saddle-stitched together for me "published").  Long story short, a poetry career in college was about enough for me to discover what everyone always told me - get a real job!

Anyway, one day a year or so ago I was on a major clean-out.  I'm talking getting rid of clutter, cleaning, downsizing - the whole bit.  I faced a drawer in my old desk where I knew my writing was kept.  I was unsure if I should look at any of it again - I feel so much of it is embarrassing, chafe and really uncomfortable to look at.  That old love poem about an ex?  Please.  My attempt at Shakespearean sonnet?  Right - how cute.

What I ended up discovering what a whole body of literature that documented my eating disorder.  It was painful, and I'm not just talking stanza structure and word choice.

I knew writing was an outlet for me, and I knew I felt pain during my disorder, but perhaps I didn't realize how much. Nor did I realize the amount of writing I did on the topic.  Looking at the words - the ones I left, the ones crossed out - felt like some spooky story one shouldn't read in the dark.  As an adult, I frightened myself by seeing how bad I really felt.

But, I appreciated the honesty I left on the pages.  I didn't know how to say the pain I was in, or how trapped and taken over my my ED I felt.  So I wrote, and wrote and without knowing made something truly special.  So, I think: what if this became something?  What if my collection actually was published?  Would it be different? Helpful?  Certainly triggering. Certainly raw, maybe even disgusting, or rough.  But all me - honestly, me.

I've thought of sharing my poetry on this blog and not that I want to hide it, but this isn't the place.  The preciousness that is my old writing deserves a better place.  Perhaps?  Something about tossing gritty poetry up on a Google blog just doesn't make sense.

It's not correct for me to say my writing stopped completely.  Indeed, through recovery, I've turned back to writing poems a bit, particularly in the early stages of my recovery.  But the outlet, while still beneficial and something I feel is "mine" isn't the only way for me to communicate pain.  Recovery, therapy and healing has taught me to speak up.  To be honest, ask for help and say when I am sad, and when I'm happy.  I've learned that I don't have to hide behind poetry, and I don't have to hide behind my body.