A Little Poetic Interlude

[SomerledDottir]

In the thread, "The Upsides of BPD", in the course of conversation, Ziggiddy invited me to share a poem, which I had written and finished the 22nd of this month, that gives an idea of some of the road I have traveled with my uBPDsis.  Hope you all like it!

Paint Me White, Paint Me Black

Paint me white, paint me black.

From a Pontiac to a Cadillac.

Oh, from the penthouse

back to the outhouse.

So nice to meet you -- what's that you say?

Can I come out with you and play?

Well, I'd love to.

Tell me, where will we go?

Come on, silly!  To the playground, you say.

It's a wonderful way to spend the day.

And so to the park we fly.

And in our joy, the hours whiz by.

I can barely keep up, you go so fast.

One place to the next, having a blast.

Up to the sliding board, sliding down,

getting dizzy on the merry-go-round.

Then we're flying kites,

wood and bright paper soaring the heights.

I think nothing of your scream and stomp and frown

when your kite comes crashing down.

It's so fun to be with you.

You're exactly like me down to the gum that you chew.

So we play at the playground every day for a week.

Then you think up a new game -- hide and seek.

So you're off like a shot

like you're running a race.

And I give it all I've got

working to find your hiding place.

At first your hiding don't last

and you pop out real fast.

But soon you're gone all day

and this don't feel like play

no more.

Then we play war.

The sky goes dark and the wind shifts to chill.

A forbidding shadow creeps over the hill.

Later overhaul, though early a tweak,

so often major flooding starts with a little leak.

Now I can't believe it's real,

but your sword's made of steel,

and my survival's looking dire

'cause your gun's spitting real fire.

And the bombs that you wield

tear up the battlefield,

exploding mud,

oozing my blood.

But I know the saddest truth of all

as the last time I fall,

is that I'm taking a sack,

'cause I won't fire back.

A couple swings of my mace

is just me saving face.

I still love you, you see.

You'll always be a part of me.

Then with no warning, you walk away,

sparing my life at the end of the day.

With only the strength to cry and swear,

I agitate and agonize if you ever cared.

Countless hours I spend

inside the healing tent,

the sweat lodge of the head,

staring at four walls from the bed.

Paint me white, paint me black.

Paint me like a big, fat hack.

'Cause this is a game that I can't win

and you lose again.

Strip me of the title only I can claim.

Oh, for you a sad, sad game.

Juggle, juggle though you may,

you'll drop the balls one fine day.

If you stand at all, you'll stand alone,

with blackened sky where sun once shone,

hanging over the room where you look out

at grieving loved ones whose welcome you wore out.

Paint me white, paint me black.

Throw me out like bric-a-brac.

Through sorrow and joy on life does go.

The power is mine 'cause now I know

I didn't die from being confused,

cast-off, lied to, or used.

Time and wisdom are the hospitals of the soul,

loved ones the doctors that made me whole.

Paint me white, paint me black.

How to write the final act?

Are we sisters?  Are we friends?

Or did we already pen the end?

Paint me white, paint me black.

Though at times I want you back,

I know for sure I don't know who you are.

So for now, I wish upon a star,

call upon the angels, the priest, the medicine man,

"Wake her, teach her, heal her if you can.

No more paint me white, paint me black.

Bring to me my soul-kin back."

[Ziggiddy]

oh my. oh my. You did it! I am gobsmacked. So full of imagery just made me ... . somerledDottir I am lost for words. And moved to my core. I could feel your joy then your dark cloud. I have to go. This has triggered the hell out of me. I be back as soon as I can. Bless you for posting this x

[SomerledDottir]

Hi, Ziggiddy 

Glad you liked the poem.  I'm a little worried it triggered you, though.  Are you OK?

[Ziggiddy]

Hi hi - yes ok now! oh well I think it was the part where you were flying the kite and swinging on the swing. I had this sense of ... my my. I am not expressing well! One thing at a time. First it reminded me of going to the park with my brother and it was kind of nice but we had such a stormy r'ship addled and confused by really messed up parenting. Anyhow part of it was the loss of a childhood that included my bro (we are great now btw), but he was just as much of a fearsome entity to me as my parents. Worse really as he had constant access. And if I dared to tell on him for his horrendous treatment of me then I had the abysmal treat of watching him get the absolute daylights beaten out of him in front of me and/or his friends etc.

The park was the thing. It should symbolise all that is lovely about childhood but that darkness. it provoked the sense of loss from a brother who stood by and watched me be bullied by his friends and  worse. His failure to stick up for me back then the way my friends' brothers did. Or walk with me or sit with me etc It was just a raw sense that it touched.

BIG HEAVE OF BREATH. And then ... . the same park. One night I met up with some friends and we went to the park that night (teenagers in a small town) well after we went somewhere else - this guy's flat. long story short I was sexually assaulted there. I got counselling back then (my bff had died about 3 weeks before and we left my childhood home 3 days later bound for a bigger place with all the fear and anxiety that encompassed. Also my parents separated that month -not in marriage just in living circumstances) so I lost my dad in a way too. the confluence of events was just too much. i am reeling now just trying to put it all together.

I am very sorry that my response to your wonderfully expressive and quite moving piece of literature should be this, but I am trying to accept that what will be will be and perhaps it was the right time.

I might add that I love poetry and I really really enjoyed your work. 

[SomerledDottir]

Ahhh, Ziggiddy, so sad.  So sorry my poem dredged up so much pain.

I'm 49 in a couple days, and I've written more than 100 poems since age 8.  In all that time, it still never ceases to amaze me how my poetry and its imagery and metaphors start out one way in my heart and on my page, but are interpreted so vastly differently by those who read it.  But that's the way with creative endeavors, isn't it?  As many meanings as there are people who read them.

Don't worry at all about my feelings about this.  It's all good.  You want to hear something funny?  I one time told a friend of mine who used to listen to a good many of my poems back in the day, "Some of my poems are good, some are mediocre, some are even kind of lousy.  But they're all mine".  My friend told me Truman Capote said the same thing (!)    This is definitely one of my better ones.  I just worried that it triggered you and may have triggered others and kicked myself for not putting a trigger warning in the header.  Some of the imagery WAS pretty strong.  My apologies for the triggers.  I will be more careful in the future.  I'm glad you're OK.  And thanks for the compliments!  Blessings!

[SomerledDottir]

P.S. Ziggiddy,

You've been through alot.  I've been through some of the same things.  Yet you're strong and courageous and wise enough to look for the upsides.  You have my respect.

[Ziggiddy]

No no no! Please don't apologise! I'm a firm believer in the maxim that when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. To me it's a sense of right time right place. I do feel quite a few similarities to you - I also used to write poetry but now I have finally started a novel. i always promised myself that when I was old enough I would do that. I started around the same time as I found about the BPD. Coincidence - weird. It's a real escape. Plus it's FUNNY. I decided to just write a story that I might like to read without trying to impress the world. Fear of failure begone!

Seriously I think at any time anyone roaming around on this board is probably prepared for the fact that somethings may trigger. It's part and parcel. Maybe even desirable?

Anyhow your poem was real useful to me as it opened a whole line of thought that really needs to be examined in order for me to work towards completion. (Regarding my brother) So thank you.

And I hope you have a great birthday. Mine is next week I'll be 45 - officially middleaged! Not quite grownup yet though 

[SomerledDottir]

Hi, Ziggiddy, glad you're OK.  I'm glad my poem has helped you.  I remember a character in a movie I saw said, "The Lord works in mysterious ways and often employs the strangest and most unlikely of messengers".  That's certainly true in this case.

I, too, aspire to write a novel when I grow up.  I actually have two in mind, just never seem to have the time or energy.  Someday, when life quiets down... .

I hope all goes well dealing with the issues that the poem brought up.  Perhaps if it's not too painful or private, you can share someday.  It can all be such a process, but perhaps like working through my abuse issues, worthwhile in the end.  Before, I didn't know how strong I was, but now I do.  Still, as with the case of uBPDsis, sometimes I wish I didn't have so many opportunities to test that strength.