It seems the creative juices only flow when I’m spiraling downward. Maybe that’s not accurate. I’ve been numb for months now, so there has been little to no creative output at all. The meds I’m on, they dull all emotion. I couldn’t even cry when my beloved Nanna passed away. Currently, my new p-doc is changing my meds. I’m on a fairly high dose of Abilify to stabilize my moods, and offset the hypo-mania that anti-depressants alone induce. Hopefully this will allow some feeling other than the despair that I feel creeping over me.
A few weeks ago I had a trying EMDR session that left me stuck feeling like five year old defenseless me. And it has taken a while to shake that feeling. So much so, that I feel myself descending into The Pit. I’m holding on tight to the edge, using all my tools to keep from following the siren song into Oblivion.
I was around four or five when my dad really started using corporal punishment on my tender behind and hands. And being stuck, feeling like that defenseless little tyke again has me reeling. I have to keep reminding myself that it’s 2018, almost 2019, and it’s been a very long time since my dad was violent toward me. And I know he’ll never be violent again; threatening to call the cops the last time he hit me was fear enough. He knew that there was no way I was going to be a victim any longer. I was just shy of 18. And yet here I am, almost 46, and feeling like a little kid again.
Since I’ve been unable to write much, my therapist has been encouraging me to “draw it out”. My drawings all look like they were done by a six year old, and I’m not sure how much is my lack of talent or if my art is being derailed by my inner wounded child. Regardless, drawing some of it seems to have unlocked my ability to write. It’s coming back slowly.
The earth shatters
For a cold moment
No light, no sound
Caught in a void
Of time and space
Where nothing feels real
Then the pain hits
Sharp as a dagger
Trained to find the tenderest truths