[from a post on the talkingclock side journal]
June 9, 2007
(This was a letter i was going to send to M., but current circumstances seem to indicate that it won’t ever be sent. So it’s open information. There are references to the reader; these are to M.)
I wrote this when i was about 17, it was directed at my mum, who, at the time, was largely absent from the house, preferring the company of her lover-at-the-time over her family. Being brought up by her alone meant our father figures were whichever man had been selected to fill the hole at the time. It was clear from her choices that she considered the candidates in respect to how they could satisfy her, instead of who would make a suitable father figure. I do not hold that against her though.
Considering the situation now, it was made so much worse by the fact that despite her bringing us up by herself, feeding off of only what she gave us and becoming the children she’d made, we seemed to be a huge disappoint to her. Being so much younger, we blamed ourselves for what we thought – and were told – was an inability to please our mother, instead of considering that perhaps it was the fault of her own inadequacy in teaching us what she expected us to know, or that perhaps she simply didn’t care as much as she should have. It was a difficult ordeal to face, and an experience i thought perhaps you could relate to. I wanted to let you know that you really are not alone in enduring what you go through; for me, one of the hardest and most hurtful factors was the feeling of loneliness and the thought that nobody understood.
As i said, i wrote the following while dealing with my mother in a painful and unforgettable stage. The indications of inflicted damage in the short but personal poem relate to her placing the blame for everything – from trouble in her relationship to family disputes, even to the state of -her- house. She eventually threw me out, under encouragement from her (now ex-)fiance. In the end, though, i think the message is clear that i allowed this to go on just because, well, she’s my mum, and i love her… I think the musings can be applied to anyone accepting abuse in some form in the name of love, dedication, and, to a degree, hope (that you’re helping, that they’ll feel better, that one day they’ll stop…).
I’m only another,
On a bleak, poisoned earth,
But i guess there’s no feeling,
So what am i worth?
Tread down my body,
Burn out my heart
I’ll smile, don’t worry
Just tear me apart
It’s not like i feel
Not with my wall
I’m just here to help
Pick you up when you fall
It’s really not fantastic, but I think its meaning is effective. The oping lines depict my frame of mind at that time, when i was experiencing intense feelings of dissassociation from everything, horrible amounts of self loathing and general feelings of hopelessess. It was around this period in time when a lot of my self-harming occured, and the words “i hope it hurts” were burned into my mind. The first line is actually where i got the name for my first journal (another). The references to earth as ‘bleak’ and ‘poisoned’ indicate feelings that nothing was going to get better; that my world had been poisoned and was slowly dying. The next two lines serve in a few ways. Firstly, as a rhetorical question, stating that there’s no feeling from her, that she didn’t care what she was doing, so asking what, if anything, i was worth to her for her to do this without consideration (the answer, she told me every time she blamed me for something new, was “nothing”). The “no feeling” line also serves, together with the later sarcastic repitition “it’s not like i feel” (blatantly repeated to reinforce her ignorance), to reference the act of trying to making myself numb, which is what she seemed to want, in defense to her inflictions of spite. The lines also serve as a means to admit my own worthlessness, and finally, “what am i worth” acts as an upfront demand to know just what she saw me as, what she really thought of me. Despite the sarcasm though, it DID feel, it DID hurt, but i had to pretend it was all ok (which is pretty much what this poem’s about).
“Tread down my body” is meant to conjure images of being walked all over, and is supposed to sound similar to “beat down”. To burn out means to be overwork from mental exhaustion – i felt as though my heart strings were being pulled to breaking point. “Burn” was intentionally used, since fire is something i could relate to feeling: fire scars, scathes, causes unquestionable pain, and the metaphor was used to represent my unhappiness in a physical, more understandable way. The rest of the poem consists mostly of straight-up bitter sarcasm. The final line is a reference to her suicide attempts (she suffered too, which made any anger i felt turn into guilt), as well as having to rebuild what she’d destroy.
It feels strange admitting all this. Do you feel a different response now, to my words, when you read them and understand the personal reasons for every choice of word? I hope, though, that you don’t feel distanced – i write like i do not only to hide what i really feel and compress my emotions into something digestable, but also so others can fill in the gaps and ‘paint their own pictures’ for each poem.