Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere. – Einstein
Sweeping across the pixels in my brain,
the dark fog of the terminally anxious.
Blood vessels, muscles, nerves each hold the weighty sand
of history and destiny.
I can’t breathe.
Confounded by its return.
I shake;
My heart somehow knowing
nothing.
By and by.
Peace, I call out for it!
Come euphoria!
A dreamland, I have yet to find.
1/7/09 Melody H. Hanson
I wish, I wish. I wish I knew what it meant to really accept yourself; to like the person you are and who you are becoming.
I wish I could remember what real joy felt like. I can’t remember the last time I felt it, if ever, which can’t possibly be true but … I just can’t recall it.
I wish my father wasn’t dead; that I could have really said good-bye while he was cognizant of me and remembered my name. And more importantly, that I could still have him – here – to learn from, know, grow with. Too many lost opportunities.
I wish I knew how to love my Mother, to accept her for who she is, just as I want to be accepted for who I am.
I wish I was a better friend; I want friendship but I’m just no good at it.
I wish that the cloud of depression, the sink hole, wouldn’t pull me down so often.
I wish we didn’t have so much stuff, which just creates a cycle of want, acquire, move, clean, dispose of, replace.
I wish I had confidence that my kids are going to be okay, that my mistakes and who I am won’t hurt them.
I wish I could remember positive experiences from growing up, because I know that growing up wasn’t ALL BAD, but I can’t remember.
I wish, I wish. All I can do today is wish, for although I am up and out of bed, my head is screaming in pain and my heart is heavy; all I can do today is wish.
12/18/2008
1/12/09
I guess I’ll make my poetry public again.
12/18, 2008
My poetry has gone underground for a while. I have said some things, and written some things, that have hurt people I love. I don’t want to be culpable, but I am. So it’s put away in a “drawer” for a season.
But here’s one called Hum, by Ann Lauterbach.
| The days are beautiful
The days are beautiful. I know what days are. The other is weather. I know what weather is. The days are beautiful. Things are incidental. Someone is weeping. I weep for the incidental. The days are beautiful. Where is tomorrow? Everyone will weep. Tomorrow was yesterday. The days are beautiful. Tomorrow was yesterday. Today is weather. The sound of the weather Is everyone weeping. Everyone is incidental. Everyone weeps. The tears of today Will put out tomorrow. The rain is ashes. The days are beautiful. The rain falls down. The sound is falling. The sky is a cloud. The days are beautiful. The sky is dust. The weather is yesterday. The weather is yesterday. The sound is weeping. What is this dust? The weather is nothing. The days are beautiful. The towers are yesterday. The towers are incidental. What are these ashes? Here is the hate That does not travel. Here is the robe That smells of the night Here are the words Retired to their books Here are the stones Loosed from their settings Here is the bridge Over the water Here is the place Where the sun came up Here is a season Dry in the fireplace. Here are the ashes. The days are beautiful. Ann Lauterbach is the author of five collections of poetry: If in Time: Selected Poems 1975-2000 (Penguin, 2001), On a Stair (1997), And for Example (1994), Clamor (1991), Before Recollection (1987), and Many Times, but Then (1979). She has received fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation,the Ingram Merrill Foundation, and the John D. and Catherine C. MacArthur Foundation. Since 1991 she has taught at Bard College, where she is David and Ruth Schwab III Professor of Language and Literature and co-directs the Writing Division of the M.F.A. program. |
||
The galactic hole in my heart
makes me tired of holding all the pieces together.
Tired of doubting.
Tired of needing. Wishing. Hurting.
Crying out in all the ways that speak of your neglect.
All my life, Daddy, learning
that I am incomplete.
So I gorge on all the things that don’t fill.
Wishing for love that never came.
All my life, yearning for the hurt to stop.
That I would not billow in space without
an anchor.
I want more. I need more.
I wish. I hurt
and long
and cry
for love and finally, I find it at the Cross.
At peace I lay down my life long yearning.
I am home.
updated March 2, 2010
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Sometimes, when the chaos of life starts getting to me, I take my camera and walk around my garden. It’s quite a mess, speaking of chaos, but I can always find something beautiful in the mess. It’s amazing how even a strangely shaped weed can be beautiful close up with the sun shining behind it.
Usually, when I do this it is the LAST thing I should be doing with dishes and laundry to be washed, a psychiatrist appointment in a hour for Emma, a birthday present to be purchased for a last minute invite to a birthday sleepover, a dentist appointment for Jacob, grocery shopping for basics (which means I gotta do it), speech & language for Jacob, 50 pages to be read before Monday with Dylan, and on and on it goes.
I wake with the familiar headache.
Deeply tired. My bones in protest.
Emotions already chafing; dazzling, fluorescent, raw. Ablaze.
Coffee the first panacea of the day.
Sip by sip, its power over me if not to heal, then to awaken.
Slowly flooded by familiar disappointment.
Weary, I begin to See myself.
I am Destruction.
I am Broken Promises wielding their power.
The surge of rage, justified.
It hurts.
My body adjusting to an awareness
of this old enemy within.
Destruction’s impact yet unknown.
Fury toward the innocent who contribute to the chaos
of my life and toward, the hell inside.
10/27/08
by Melody Harrison Hanson
My father was addicted to his rage – he admitted that to me at the end of his life. He wielded it over our family in pathological ways that nearly destroyed my Mother, and at times I feel it in me to either consume me or destroy me. I fear, more than anything, the legacy of that rage in my life. More than alcoholism, more than depression or even debilitating insecurity. Rage is the ultimate nemesis. The curse he left for the next generation; for me.
How hard can it be? Some days, too hard.
As you crawl back into bed, pleading with the universe,
To make it all disappear.
You can’t drink away your fear and so,
You choose sleep. It’s the only option,
When you must make your mind stop.
Furtive thoughts, disbelieving truths, you are
Just plain scared. And of what?
Your heart races from thinking too much.
Hands shaky. Breathing in, out. Counting down, 100, 99, …
To slow down your heart,
Your head whispers lies.
You lay there for an unknowable amount of time,
Moments lost forever.
Irretrievable.
Just Gone. And at a certain point you realize that
The panic that quietly stole your day — the lies
From the pit of your heart are untrue.
After incalculable hours lost, never to be retrieved
You get up. You paint your face,
Coif your hair.
You put on pink, the happy color,
The disguise. Just imagine yourself strong.
10/23/08 MHH
I wish I were a drinker.
My thirst is an itching wound; an irritation, a constant need. My albatross.
It will remain; a heavy calling. Uncomfortable. I long for satiation, even as I am arguing against it.
Ice cold, tart, sublime. It will fill me up. Cradling my heart,
that beats too fast;
I want the panic to recede, and so, for a moment I submit to its tender lies, so gently disguised.
The thirst of a drinker, remains. It calls to me. But it is not my calling.
It lies and tells me it is but a moment; infrequent, even good.
It utters frantic, believable thoughts. Yes, believable. You can. You want. You deserve. Your heart is dry as a bone.
Your need is great.
Lingering, it hangs like the moon in the daytime sky.
Calling, enticing, bewitching. A constant source of light.
Beautiful, as it lures me back to that place of forgetting.
I wish I were a drinker, because I will always thirst.
But then I remember what is so easily forgotten,
The lack.
The Emptiness.
The place of Nowhere.
Even still, I long for it.It caresses me, it lures.
The seduction of a drinker is constant.
10/17/08 MHH
Five and a half years I have known that I am an alcoholic – most of five, of which I was unable to face the truth. In that time I have studied the disease and I came to face with the truth that this thing,that is my albatross, although difficult is just that ‘a thing.’ And we all have Things. Mine, yes, is tragic at least to me. I mean how pathetic that I can’t drink. I love drinking. I really do. It’s fun. It’s is social. It brings people together. It’s ‘normal.’ Yup, those are the more subtle lies (for me).
Anyway, I guess I just need to say that although I have felt a great deal of shame, that is no longer true. Yes, alcohol had me it its grip, but no longer. I feel freer than ever in my life. And although it does call me, whispering in my ear, seductively at times, I just tell it to shut up! Seriously I am reduced to telling the Liar in my head to shut the fuck up!
I have been sober, since July 2008, and almost daily I remind myself that my life IS worth living — covering up is weak, feelings are important, and most of all my children and husband need me! May it always be so that I listen to that strength inside that help me shut out the lure of being a drinker.
You can’t just say you love me. Love isn’t words.
Love is time — spent over the span of a life.
Words are a phantom love.
I can’t mend your hurting heart.
I don’t even know why I should try.
Empty, adrift. You are searching for something.
Crying out, and I hear you.
But I cannot help.
You can’t just say I’m sorry.
Love is known through a lifetime of being, searching, knowing.
Love is acceptance. Endurance. Forgiveness.
Each of these is evident — if you love.
What is it that I am to you?
Do you feel you cannot provide for me the things I crave?
I am fully aware and accepting, that I am the woman you both shaped over time.
Strong. Capable. Faithful.
Afraid. Careful. Wounded.
You don’t have to heal me, that task is all mine.
All you have to do is BE,
with me,
in my life.
You can’t just say you love me – show me, you don’t regret, that I am.
Show me.
Just be.
With me.
Suicide, for most inconceivable.This is dedicated to my friend and colleague, Dave Foster who took his life last Tuesday, at 4:00 am. I worked with him for several years at InterVarsity. I loved & admired him. He was an innovative, interesting, delightful person. He was a real professional. Imperfect, as we all are. Rough around the edges. He loved his family so much and I always sensed a desire to protect and provide.
I can not imagine the grief that his widow and three children are feeling. It seemed to happen completely out of the blue and everyone is seeking answers.
What was the cause of this unimaginable act? We will likely never have the answers to this sad mystery.
Good bye Dave. At last you have found peace for your restless soul.
Originally uploaded by M e l o d y
I am 42 today and considering my life. I was born in the highlands of Papua New Guinea on this day in 1966. I am the 2nd daughter of missionary parents. I spent the first eight years of my life there in PNG. It was a wonderful beginning. The middle was kind of rough, but it is improving every day! Perhaps it is kind of silly to ask “Who am I?” at my age, but today this is what I did.
— Melody
What might you not know about me?
I’m addicted to coffee. Seriously it’s a physical and psychological thing and if I don’t have it, I might just come unhinged. Of course being an alcoholic, I don’t drink. But I do smoke and I know it’s a slow form of suicide. I don’t do it lightly (almost every cigarette comes with lucid acknowledgment of the consequence.) but I definitely cannot quit at this time. I love to exercise and eat well, but I don’t (usually.) I play music every day; all kinds and it is life-giving. I am diagnosed with major depressive disorder, which means in layman’s terms: I have a propensity for melancholia and if I don’t manage it, it will come back. At its worst this type of depression is like drowning in your worst nightmare, a stinking, dark hellish place to reside. Where truth becomes lies, and lies truth. You are incapable of doing, feeling, thinking, reading, sometimes even breathing. Thankfully I’ve been depression-free for almost two years. [I may regret saying this, but you have an open invitation to ask me if I am exercising & eating,because these are the first disciplines to go. Also, if you haven’t seen me in a while, it can be a bad sign because I begin to isolate.]
Depression, alcoholism, insecurity, damage, they are not my complete story, my story is just starting.
I believe God brought into my life the perfect person for me; he loves me by asking hard questions, telling me the truth about myself which usually means “good stuff” but sometimes even hard truths. He encourages my passions and interests, supports them as well, which is no small thing in this financial climate. He is a warrior on my behalf and I love him more than I have shown him or will ever be capable of showing.
People have described me as aloof and private, which I am but mostly because I am shy and those demons of insecurity are playing out in my head more often than I would like to admit.
I am creative, intuitive, capable, kind, thoughtful, deep, at times extremely selfish & critical of others, but mostly about my ideas and my time.
My critical spirit, my insecurities, can and do hurt those I love and it is one of my deepest regrets; an Achilles heal.
I am passionate and always reading & thinking about things that are important to me, but I often fail at finishing and carrying them out. Books lay around unread, photographs unprinted, my book of poetry sits unfinished, and commitments become a burden, as I selfishly move on to something new.
I need community, long for it, work to develop it, but most times I fall short through my own weaknesses and broken heart. You can be confident that I want to know you, be in your life, especially if I have told you, but my stupid S**T keeps me entangled at times.
All in all, I would say I am a good person.
As I learn what it means to be a child of an alcoholic I can acknowledge that I am still growing up, even at 42; still learning and discovering who I am and how I want to live. I am slowing waking up – from a life-draining, sad, lonely, scared and cold childhood. All in all, I am blessed beyond belief – with great love, friendship, abundance, talents and so much more. I acknowledge that, even while I ache with the painful knowledge that I cannot fully embrace my life – yet – due to all of the above. The most important thing people may not know about me is that HOPE is the central thing of importance in my life. If I have even a tiny inkling of hope – a belief, a dream or something to hope for, I can put all of this aside. (Okay, not totally of course.)
Although this list isn’t complete, (how could a perfectionist “complete” a list) it is all true, as I know myself, today on my forty-second birthday, 2008. Thanks for being a friend, getting involved in my messy life. Keep hanging in there, because I believe it’s on an upward curve and I am hopeful about the future. It is simply a record of my thoughts, and perhaps will give you a glimpse at the ME I let very few in to see. You do not, should not, feel an obligation to reply.
September 24, 2008
Melody Hanson
I needed a father who would love me for who I am, not who I might be or who I might become.
I needed to be able to speak my mind, express myself, have opinions, and not feel I was your captive, imprisoned by you being right every time.
I needed a father who would not yell at me, at my sisters, at my mom. All I can remember is constant bellowing, uproar, fear and pain.
I needed you and what you gave was distance, scowls, the expansive cloud of disappointment hung about us all the time.
Will I ever know why you were so angry?
I needed a mother who didn’t push people away; who wasn’t always afraid of him, of me, of living her life.
I had a mother who was dangerously sad. We all knew it. Because of it, I was always afraid, always tired, and scared of life. If she couldn’t manage, how could I? She’s still afraid, but at least, I know why.
I needed parents who knew how to laugh at themselves. I am slowly unlearning that legacy. I need to be able to poke fun at myself.
It is so simple. So satisfyingly good to gaze at my imperfections and know it’s perfectly okay.
I needed a father who came home and wanted to be there; who gave hugs that didn’t feel off because they didn’t jive with constant anger, constant fear. Hot cold. Hot cold. The sting of our speculation. If only you wouldn’t feel ‘rejected’ all the time. If only you understood that your deeds didn’t match your words.
I needed someone to watch me grow, with joy.
I needed you to remember me daily. If not every day, often enough to not let me get lost in books and fantasy, in forgetting, in weary striving for what’s unattainable, even impossible.
I needed you to help me on this journey of life. I was falling down, over and over, stumbling, until I thought I couldn’t do anything right. Plunging into failure and living up to your disappointment with your life.
I needed a mother who would remember my birthday.
I needed a father who didn’t make me cry.
I needed. I needed so much and when I allow myself to imagine how much I needed you, my heart feels full of gravel; my insides closing in. My heart is bursting with confusion, anguish; My heart is full of your unthinkable, backbreaking life.
It is something that I can’t put my full mind to, yet. Perhaps because I don’t want to discover that I needed so much from you and it is too late. Too late for what I needed. Too late.
[Too
late
for
need.]
10/06/08 MHH
Logic & Imagination 