I was reading your last couple of posts and was struck by vivid memories of a similar experience in my own life. My son was very ill and my life seemed to be spinning out of control. I desperately wanted to give up, get off, and find a peaceful place to shut it all out. I was terribly frustrated and deeply depressed, not to mention angry and resentful. I was finally able to release some of that emotion in a poem I wrote a few years ago. I shared it here about a year ago, but I thought it was worth repeating; maybe you can relate and find some comfort in it. In the end it was the image of my son and the reality of his need for my care that allowed me to break through and find new hope. I know you love your child deeply and it is that love that will pull you through and allow you to find courage and new hope for your life. Even in your anguish I can sense great strength. Here's the poem.
The Merry-Go-Round
By
The carnival tiptoed in on a dark summer’s night
Unloading its cargo of laughter and fright.
Amidst whispering and hushed muttering
It grew a soul and became a living thing.
Bathed by the dawn’s yawning sun, it’s heart warmed,
Inviting all; with glee they swarmed
Through corridors of laughing clowns
With plastic smiles and sagging frowns.
The air shrieked with laughter, rampaging torrents
That swirled through rows of gaudy tents.
Through cracks in the laughter came the melancholy sound
Of an ancient, neglected merry-go-round.
Ancient planks creaked and sprang hopefully
Against my weight as I stepped gingerly
Across the deck and reached to feel
Shiny painted tails of horses impaled on steel.
Their eyes flared, with fire that burned beneath
The painted shells adorned with yellowed teeth,
Inspiring fear, or perhaps amusement,
Confronted by passion long spent.
Ancient joints creaked as I pulled myself high,
Settled into the polished saddle with a sigh;
Laughing voices became muted and faint,
As if in the presence of a holy saint.
Lurching forward with playful glee, the ride began;
Chipped hooves pawed the air as horses ran
Through sluggish wind that whistled by my ears,
Drowning out the beating of my fears.
The jarring sounds of calliope notes
Swept by on wooden coffin boats
That drifted through memories long dead
Emanating from my throbbing head.
I cried a tear or two as images lurched by
Distorted by hopeful choices gone awry,
Imprisoned on this old merry-go-round
Rotating aimlessly through tired squeaking sound.
Around and around and around and around,
Levitated above the blurring ground,
Holding tight to the rising and settling pole
That seemed to plumb the depths of my soul.
After awhile, I grew tired of endless repetition,
Each scene repeated, with admonition
To heed each sermon, preached with fire,
Consuming dreams on a burning pyre.
I wanted only for the ride to stop,
To disembark and cast my lot
With the living voices, muted singing,
Echoing through my mind, endlessly ringing.
It would not stop, or even slow,
Endlessly circling, a nauseous glow,
Flaring brightly in dead horse eyes,
Crashing soundlessly on a sea of sighs.
And so…I let go,
Drawn by the current of the river’s flow,
Silently cleansing my mind’s confusion
The merry-go-round became illusion.
A dream that faded with the night
As the dawn burned bright,
Voices sang, an angelic choir;
My God is a consuming fire.
The fire sucked death from withered dreams,
A smell of burning flesh and screams,
A sacrifice to free my tortured soul,
Release my bonds and make me whole.
I awoke in a silent meadow,
Bathed in the amber morning glow,
Reflections of a fire that burned inside,
Filling the spaces where demons died.
The carnival left town that night,
Sweeping away the last crumbs of fright;
Tattered posters swirled through empty streets,
Shadowy memories of imagined feats.
Suddenly the brilliant image of a child’s face
Inflated to fill each crack and space
Of my tortured mind,
Leaving the darkness behind.
I climbed the steps, opened the door,
Walked silently across the carpeted floor,
Stumbled on objects old and new
That suddenly sprang into view.
An inner door creaked slowly open,
Toys scattered by a broken playpen,
In a bed, the child sleeping…alone;
It’s good to be home.
Take care of yourself,
Alan
Oh, Alan, thank you so much for thinking about me and for sharing this.