Saturday, November 15, 2008


pressure from above
unseen, only felt
reality distorted
no exit route

narcotics, cold steel
moon upon the waters
voices in the head
cocktail mix for death

"hopeless failure
despicable soul
worthless carbon
self-indulgent fool"

blueprint emerges
with isolation as
the nexus
ingredients complete

yet, one thought
bars the doorway
"fruit of my womb,
legacy worth life"

november 15, 2oo8

Suicidal ideation is defined as thoughts about suicide which may include a formulated plan. Unless one has been there, I don't know if one can comprehend the utter worthlessness and engulfing darkness that is experienced.

During an episode, one of the main helps (if not the main factor) is to reach out for help; isolation can be a killer. Yet, to make that phone call feels almost like an impossible task; it is like a paralysis. Then the question is who to call. If a sufferer feels s/he has no one to reach out to that will understand, call the suicide helpline. The people there know what to do; they understand; they are there to help.

Another help is bring to mind those who you love, for they are the ones left to suffer. For me, the thought of my children living with the reality that their mother committed suicide leaves a horrible imprint on my psyche. That reality, and it would be a reality, has been my catalyst to make the call for help.

Of course, anyone who suffers with mental health challenges needs to seek medical intervention with people trained in that area. There is help: various coping skills, medications, nutrition, etc.

To Life!

Sunday, November 2, 2008


The accuser once more tolls
A whipping to accrue
Abruptly interrupted
The guiltless child in view

You appear once again
So much larger than before
Your countenance now forward
Instead of toward the floor

"Are you gonna whip me now?"
You ask with candid face
My heart jumps to my throat,
"No, it only causes pain"

Uncomprehending stare,
Maybe now she understands!
I'm wearied from the beatings,
And the scars upon her hands

I inhale deep, catch my breath
Tears trickle down my cheek
You have no tears left to cry
For the freedom that you seek

Yes, you have been my scapegoat
And now it's time to cease
"Will you help me learn to trust
And with myself make peace?"


This poem could be entitled "Unveiling, Part II" instead of "Nanna." I may change it at some point. I named the child in tattered frock Nanna. Together we'll discover a part of me that died...

For the prelude, view Unveiling.


You stand, a far distance
tiny in the remote sphere
Small, unpretentious, homely
Barefoot child draped
in tattered frock

Alone, downcast
you dare not approach

All is quiet as I survey the scene

Can it be?
Are you the one,
the scapegoat?
What are the wages?

You quietly fade
never once looking up
Your countenance
forever branded
within me

I will not forget

october 31, 2oo8

I am an expert at self-blame. That's not a good thing, btw. In identifying this core belief that has been central to my life for decades, I had to identify my scapegoat. In searching my heart and psyche, at first I pictured a goat. But that didn't resonate. I looked up the word 'scapegoat' in a thesaurus and found the word 'cat's paw.' That didn't work either.

With this on my mind I went to bed for the evening. First thing upon waking the next morning, my mind was met with an image of a child. Could it be?

For the follow-up poem, view Nanna.