I decided to write a poem. In it I would express a night in which my life changed. I would write my observations where previously they had only been shared as a police statement. Only this time I could bare my soul. Express my emotion, the depths, the darkness. Own it and regurgitate like a horrible sickness. Say my words with the horror and disgust that they were meant to be heard. Grieve and scream through the power of words alone.
My poem. My expression. My story. My words.
A tangible entity of everything that happened, the pain so deep and fear powerful enough to live forever in my soul.
My poem was complete. It was mine.
I shared it with my husband, he looked worryingly at me, he told me it was extremely confrontational and enquired as to my well being. I felt ok. The poem was constructed over a few nights. I didn’t want to deliberate over it during the day.
Having minimal sleep I read a revised version over. There my factual inaccuracies hit me. As flashbacks. Two. Terrible. Painful, graphic. Both the image and the verbal account to police. I threw my phone. Curled into a ball and sobbed. How could I be so stupid? How could I have forgotten these things? Made these mistakes? I felt sick, beaten by the flashbacks, unsafe and sordid. For a brief moment I forgot who I was. Time, location, everything was gone. Nothing existed. Just this flashback. These details. Sadness, terrible gut wrenching sadness, fear and pain. I’m ashamed to confess that there was a brief moment where the old habit, the old desire to self harm crept up. Needing to cut a wound into my flesh, to see the blood run. As a punishment and to bring myself away from this horrible pain and these horrible memories.
I sobbed until I was exhausted of tears. I called my husband at work. I said the poem is wrong. The facts are wrong. “It’s your poem, you can write another one, you can change it. It’s your choice, it’s your poem.” He said to me.
I fell into an exhausted slumber for about an hour before my friend called. A call I was happy to receive.
Before I left to pick her up, I took my husband’s advice and just tweaked the two errors that caused the heartache. I realise in doing that I’m owning it again and it gives it some perspective.
It’s been a long day and I’ve not considered it again. There is clearly too much emotion tied to this than I’d initially thought.
Maybe one day I will put it in my blog.