Category: Poems {Going Quietly Sane}

Eulogy to Life

 


eulogy to life

Originally uploaded by M e l o d y

Eulogy to Life

There was a time, when to wake with a pounding head
meant total indiscretion the night before.
On this day, the one year anniversary of my choosing relief and power,
the day I rejected my empty Thirst, I celebrate my life.

There is shame in being a drunk; total confusion and self-contempt.
I do not remember to glorify it, for it was pure wretchedness, and I still
sometimes feel disbelief that this is my story.
But I cannot, dare not, blot out the memories.
It happened.
There is guilt, humiliation, self-disgust, but I dare not forget.

I choose sobriety.
I choose to be aware of my cravings and needs.
I am an alcoholic who chooses — every day — her Life.
What is suicide — picking up the glass knowing it is death, for me.
What is life?
Awareness.
Humility.
Service.
Love.

Life is facing down my demons. Knowing the dark times will come.
Life is wanting something more.
Power comes in the choosing.
Choosing love, choosing life.
Even as I remember, I choose this day to live.
I choose my life.

July 17, 2009
Melody Harrison Hanson

Letting go. Thoughts on being an alcoholic. A cautionary tale.

Why do I tell people, up front, that I’m an alcoholic?  I certainly haven’t always been able to admit it.  That’s the journey really.  Once you can admit it, some of the sting is gone.  Once you can admit it, help looks appealing.  Once you can admit it everything changes.

It took me more than seven years to admit it to myself. And then s l o w l y getting help took another several years.  It is hard.  Proud people don’t easily concede and I was very very proud.

In November of 02 my father was diagnosed with brain tumors and it turned out to be a death sentence. I was abusing alcohol even then, but it took me years to process intellectually and spiritually that I might have a problem. And to be honest at that point it wasn’t bad — I was quite functional — just had bouts of over doing it.

Today I have to admit that I am an alcoholic and that I will never drink alcohol again, because I was headed toward being a falling down drunk. No, because I was a drunk.  But most people, even those I drank with regularly, didn’t see it and some still don’t believe it.  Of course I was careful.  And bless him, the one person that did see me the few times it got super ugly was my husband.  We’re talking black outs and you name it, it all happened.  He was never judgmental but he was worried — very very afraid and didn’t know what to do.  Over the years, we ‘quit’ together at his pushing and it lasted for a while.  But I wasn’t committed to that idea.  Let me be clear I am not proud of any of that, AT ALL.  I don’t write this to glory in it in some weird way.  I’m ashamed.  It was awful.  I’m grateful that my children were young and didn’t witness most of it.  When they ask me why I don’t drink I tell them I can’t and basically repeat what I’ve said above.  My daughter has asked me why I can’t just have one drink at a party?  I have to tell her there is no “one drink” for an alcoholic.  I wish it were different, but that is the plain truth.  One quickly becomes five, or eight.

I am sharing this story because, I think people need to know that I a forty-something, white, Christian women from the suburbs was a drunk .  It could happen to anyone.  This is a cautionary tale.

Alcoholism is partly genetic and my extended family is riddled with addiction.  With a parent who is an alcoholic, there’s one in four chance that you will be.  (Yes, I have told my daughter that and my nieces and nephews.) Scientists do not yet know how much is determined by our DNA and how much by our life experiences, but circumstances in your life play into it.  Also your emotional state.  And, although it’s not simple, but I can admit it myself that at a certain point in my addiction, I decided the following.  It was a clear-headed day when I said, “Perhaps I am an alcoholic, probably, but I will not quit yet.  Not until I really, really have to, because, at least I can enjoy a few more years of my life.”

Now that seems sad, that I believed life wasn’t worth living without alcohol. And I can say, today that life is way, way, WAY better without it.  (And I still crave it sometimes.  I’m only at the beginning of recovery.)

I told myself that I could “manage” my drinking.  And I did that, for about a year, until it escalated into drinking every day and then drinking a lot every day.  And then, … well, … all I can say is that God told me to quit. (And that is a story for another day.)

And so for years, I couldn’t imagine my life without alcohol.  It was more important to me than almost everything.  I had lost friendships because of it.  And other intangibles like personal integrity.  That was the sin I think.  I’m genetically predisposed.  I struggle with and receive treatment for major depression and I knew alcohol is a depressant.  I was on medication for depression that had warnings about drinking alcohol with it, but I did not want to give it up.  At one time I had a frightening suicide attempt.

I believed that I could not give it up, but here is the kicker . . .  I would not ask God to help me with it.  I mean how pathetic would that be? “God, please help me not to drink.” Swig.  Not me.  I turned away from God.

Now I can say publicly that I have struggled with addiction, depression and self-harm because I have finally let go. It all happened to me, but laying all that down was the biggest relief! I will never drink again.  I will likely struggle with major depression through out my life, though I have learned a lot about managing it and it’s better than it has ever been.

But I got help.  I had a supportive, rock solid, amazing husband, and family & friends that didn’t give up on me.  I have the best therapist.  I got trained in my addiction through Gateway Drug & Alcohol, which I cannot recommend highly enough.  But it was the ongoing teaching at Blackhawk, and my personal study of Biblical principles, and a small group of women praying, that was as or more important than anything else.  Through personal study I began to understand in a new way now, I can say to you, without shame, I may be an alcoholic but I am loved.

I am more than a year, free (as of July 08)!

I found, at last, unconditional love from God.  After wondering and struggling my whole bloody life, finally I fell so far down that there was only up.  I looked up and God was still there.  Somehow, I believed it and although I have to take up with Him (almost) daily it is good.

“Do you mean it?  You really, really love me? Accept me, with all my sh*t.  I mean, I’ve messed up good.  How can I ever stand in front of people and admit…….” You get the picture.  He says “Yep, I mean it. I love you.”

And I start another day.

And, I continue to figure out what it means to be loved.  And what kind of person I need to be: humble and yet confident, kind, honest and compassionate, striving to serve others who walk the same path … for starters.

Life Long Yearning

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 am filling up, gorging on all the things that don’t fill that galactic hole.

Wishing for love that never came. All my life, yearning.

It stops when I say so.  I am here, not billowing in space without an anchor.

I want more. I need.  I wish. I hurt. I cry for love and find it.

At the cross, in peace I lay a life of yearning. I am home.

All of my poems are organized with images and can be found here.  One in particular is about that time when I turned away from God.  It can be found here.

If you or someone you love struggles with depression there is help.  If I had managed my depression better I would not have needed to drink.  I’d be glad to talk to you or there’s tons of help on the web.  This website, http://alcoholism.about.com/od/about/u/symptoms.htm, does a good job of breaking things down.  A caution:  Medical doctors are terrible at helping a person with these issues.  I don’t know whether they are just too busy or in denial or just don’t have the where with all to help.  But I would not go to an MD if I were worried about my drinking.  They will likely play it down.  That goes for most Psychologists as well.  There is no harm in talking to a Drug or Alcohol professional, with is covered by many health insurance policies.  Or, you can pay out of pocket for one appointment if confidentiality is a concern.

Whether it is you or someone you love that you are worried about, I can tell you that if you are worried enough to get more information, then the chances are they have a problem or are headed in that direction.  It doesn’t have to shatter your life, if they can get some help sooner than later.  I’m grateful that I was able to get help before I drove drunk and killed someone.

**Two out of three people who struggle with depression never seek help, and untreated depression is the leading cause of suicide.  In America alone, it’s estimated that 19 million people live with depression, and suicide is the third-leading cause of death among those 18-24 years old.  The good news is that depression is very treatable, that a very real hope exists in the face of these issues.”   Source: http://www.twloha.com/index.php

My dad: Dan Harrison


dadOriginally uploaded by M e l o d y

My father was diagnosed with two fatal brain tumors November 2002. This rendering (right) is of the last photo ever taken of him. Of course we had no idea that he was going to die a few days later.

I love it, because although he wasn’t able to speak by that time, he was watching his grand kids (my kids) play in the yard and this smile is sooo HIS SMILE! Makes me (smile) just looking at it.

For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.  —    Rainer Maria Rilke

This is my dad.  I’m missing him today.  He died May 19th, 2003.  When I look at this picture, it still doesn’t seem to be real.

He traveled a lot.  He was gone as much as he was at home growing up.  So when I think of him as dead, well it’s really more of a gone feeling.  Which is very different than dead.

My dad was a mixed blessing.  I guess you take the good with the bad when it comes to parents.  Right now, I’d take anything from him.  I miss him so much.

With all I have learned about photography, I wish that I had one last chance to take his photo.  Oh how I would have loved that.

I’m looking to hear your thoughts about my dad.

I’ll write more later about mine.  I do have poems about him, but I don’t want to focus on that pain right now.  If you want to read them look under Poetry.

Hold On, Honey (a poem)


In the face of a child

you see a simple belief

that life will always be safe and good.

That they are loved.  Always.

Even when you might yell or sternly scold,

a child forgives. Not really knowing they even need

to forgive.

A child comes  running for a hug and snuggle that says, once again,

everything is going to be okay.

Yes, in the face of a child, everything’s gonna be okay.

A child doesn’t know that they might not eat tomorrow.

A child doesn’t know they may not have a place to sleep tonight.

A child is laughter, joy and expectation of fun. They just want a zooming truck or a pretty doll or a book read, just one.

In the face of a child you find the hope of the whole wide world,

wrapped up in the crinkles around their eyes as they smile,

in those chubby cheeks and baby teeth lined up so nice.

In the sweet, sweaty smell of their body rubbing up against yours.

In a child’s believing eyes there is love.

Their “Good night Mama, I love you” holds more hope than one adult can imagine to feel

in life time.

Hold on to that hope honey. You hold on.

10-28-2009
Written for all children who still smile and for those that have forgotten what it is to be and trust like a child.

SOME DAY: A poem about Siblings (Not) Getting Along

Some Day

Some day I won’t have to ask the question: Why do siblings war?

This I know.

Tattered hearts are the consequence.

It is said by some that soon you will be the best of friends.  And so I listen

from the next room, and wonder and think

it is said so assuredly, but that slippery truth isn’t now,

only some day.  You know what I think?

Some day, if you are lucky, you will long to share breakfast with your brother

and he’ll live miles away.  Or he may be

distracted, distressed or in a disagreement with you.

Life seems to get in the way

of some day.   As for today,

as you kick and scream on the couch demanding

your own way

I can only listen from the other room and pray, for some day.

Written October 28, 2009

Winter Comes

WINTER COMES

Winter is uninvited, yet it always comes.

No matter how long  I postpone trying on last year’s coats, hats and gloves,

even still winter comes.  If I leave the hose out until it’s frozen stiff, snaking through the yard,

still winter comes.  The pots and the plants they crack and curl from the cold.  Winter, comes.

Winter comes in the cold,

dark mornings heralding sad thoughts and memories.

I lost my father to the winter.  I discovered, accepted and revealed a family’s ancient addiction.

I miscarried.  I fell down.  I fell apart.  Always winter comes.

Winter means waking early with darkness bringing in the day.

Though I try to overcome, the anxious thoughts settle in.

Remember the cold. Remember, remember.  I am always falling, in winter.

Good things are lost, so do not hold too tight

to what you desire most.  You will lose them to winter.

Love hurts more in winter, dries up and becomes need.

Love becomes memory. I am falling.  In winter.

And at the moment when the winter once again threatens to overcome, I end my slumber.

On that icy morning I wake early. Snuggle in.

Sipping coffee, by the fire.   And I think of Spring.

13, October, 2009

It’s raining and I am reading Kierkegaard.

It’s raining and I am reading Kierkegaard.  That’s a good combination, the gloomy weather and honest thoughts.  As I sip my coffee and write, I do it amidst the bustle of children preparing for their day.  My coffee has grown cold, but let me tell you I am just warming up!

I have sat among others in conversation about Søren Kierkegaard and his thinking, but like many other areas in my life I have let others’ interpretations suffice and he had very little impact.

This is all so ironic, considering that he put into words an ache inside me that I haven’t known how to express. This understanding didn’t become as real until I read him for myself! Like so many areas of life, I am discovering that I am unique.  I have thoughts and ideas that are different, sometimes hugely different, from others.  But my self-discovery has been so long in coming that it is more than a little embarrassing.

In An Introduction to Kierkegaard, it says: “Kierkegaard aims to strip you, the reader, naked at two in the morning, to sit you in front of a mirror and force you to think about your life.”

Rest assured I am fully dressed, and it’s daytime, but my soul feels echoes of relief at being understood, even as I am reading the words of someone writing 100 years ago!  How I have anguished!  Certainly that is how this blog came about and anyone who takes the time to read my poetry knows it is true of my poetry.

Kierkegaard demands self-examination in a way that makes me jump up and howl “Yes!”  Not in self-absorption, or self-centeredness, but in a quest for maximum understanding, which makes so much sense to me! He confronts our innermost person, who is being lost in today’s (American) culture.  Hear me out.

“They use their abilities, amass wealth, carry out worldly enterprises, make prudent calculations, etc. and perhaps are mentioned in history, but they are not themselves.  In a spiritual sense they have no self, no self for whose sake they could venture everything.” (CUP 64-5)

This lack of being an individual leads to despair.  Many never acknowledge this.  Too often I do and feel like a total nutcase.  In the daily, humdrum of life “We convince ourselves that life is ‘happy’, that there is meaning and purpose to our lives, when often this is not the case.  We throw ourselves into activity of various kinds which is subconsciously designed to prevent us having to think deeply about ourselves at all.”  (Introduction to Kierkegaard.)

He doesn’t consider despair a negative.  Kierkegaard believed that the pain of despair can help us to seek something deeper, which comes before a person can take charge of their life, “beginning the long, painful, slow walk of becoming an individual.”

This, for me, is the most important point:

“In his ignorance of his own despair a person is furthest from being conscious of himself as spirit.  But precisely this — not being conscious of oneself as spirit — is despair, that is to say spiritlessness . . . the despairer is in the same situation as the consumptive; he feels best, considers himself to be healthiest, can appear to others to be in the pink of condition, just when the illness is at its most critical.” (CUP 75)

Kierkegaard is challenging those of us who have the outward appearance of happiness, to slow down, to be still, to look at ourselves differently.  Then perhaps we will see that it is a facade.  This doesn’t come easily and for me it took a complete change of career paths from a really driven, accomplished Mission leader … striving, proving, achieving… to housfrau and mommy.  Whoa did I have a crisis of purpose and fall flat on my face both physically and emotionally.  A crisis in my soul.  I was completely flattened by the fact that I had no understanding of my life’s greatest meaning. (And many Christians I know will now start flinching at this heretic thinking.  Read on.)

When I was working I wasn’t told you’re doing too much, I was simply given more to do.  The more I did, the more I was asked to do, until, when I left my job was split into three full-time jobs.  Why is this important, because I had become a machine.  When I was sad and confused about how to next spend my time and energies, I was given lists of activities and encouraged in to mommy-hood.  Really I just simply wanted some space, to think about these bigger issues of purpose, a sabbatical of sorts.  I now know that I would not have quit working if I could have sorted out these things, while procreating and all that entails.  (I wonder how many women go through this?)

When I did go home, suddenly I fell into the despair of questioning my purpose and discovering the masks I had constructed, feeling the despair of the seemingly commonplace, everyday life I was now living.  And so I began a long eight year path of becoming ruthlessly honest about what is true and false in my life.

Why do we seek the placid, safe and guarded sameness I have anguished?  I questioned and lamented my superficiality and missed the safety of the pursuit of work.  I was left with myself and I didn’t like it.  We work, we eat, we exercise, we shop, we acquire things and experiences, we pursue a hobby, become good at certain skills, we seek knowledge of various kinds, we become addicted to good and bad things, if we are very lucky we love, and we create beautiful things … and yet, still, we find ourselves awake at 2 in the morning.  The moment returns, or was it ever gone, and what then?

The greatest question is what does it mean to be human, not in some grand philosophical sense, but in how we choose to live and how to die.   The word ‘philosophy’ means ‘love of wisdom.’ And wisdom my father always said can only be gained through experience.  And I would add, thought.

For the first time in my life, with all pretense stripped away, I had an obligation to face my life and let wisdom begin to change the way lived.   Otherwise, life is just passing the time having moments of meaning. I should be able to figure out how to live out my life with justice and truth, with meaning.  My life can come  to mean something more than what I do and create.

For Kierkegaard said “I also know that in Greece a thinker was not a stunted existing person who produced works of art, but he himself was an existing work of art.” (CUP 303)

What does it mean to say you love? What does it mean to be a self? As I was reading him for the first time I started to get excited.  And if you are still with me after 1000+ words, I think you are excited as well!!!!!   Kierkegaard argues that most people are not selves at all.  Being an individual is difficult and it is something that few people attempt.  Instead, we put ourselves together in such a way that we are acceptable to others.  He calls it a copy.  We put on a mask.

I had certainly worn a mask for most of my life and with the ending of my work, or my purpose, I fell into a desolate place, a sinkhole which was ultimately deep depression.  It was like a loss of an arm it was so painful and it echoed on and on, I was lost .

And everyone continued to move through life as if it were nothing.   I should be able to do this change of career, or purpose and not fall apart.  So many other people do but for me it was my time of reckoning.  And I am grateful for it now that I am on the other side of the raging river.  I have crossed over and read with joy a description of what I went through.  Sure, I’m just at the beginning of reading this great thinker, philosopher and theologin.  But I’m psyched!

At 43, I am …


Originally uploaded by M e l o d y

I am feeling my age!  And I am middle aged people. But I happy to be 43, no matter how I feel physically, which is squishy, and tired, and showing signs of blase-body (Yes, I made that up)!!! I’ve been waking up very early in the morning and can’t get back to sleep. I don’t enjoy sleep with the verve of my youth where I actually RELISHED sleep and would have said it was one of my favorite activities. Sleep is now an activity I do in order to replenish myself. That feels odd.  And OLD.

I read this and just

loved how it made me feel:

‘Gather, girl, the roses.’

Not a bad approach to life.  A year ago I began to be re-acquainted with an old friend.  We sat down to talk about my thoughts about being 42 and he told me I was hard on myself.  He’s passed on, this year.  I want to remember Pete and the figure of truth telling that he was for me as well as recognize that none of us know how many days we have on this earth so whatever it is that you long for, do it now, seize the moment!

I’m not getting any younger! I’m going to have some fun! I want to date Tom! And do things just because they seem fun! Not watch my kids act like kids, but join in!!

While 42:

  • I remained sober!
  • I quit smoking!!
  • I quit sleeping medication!!!
  • I wrote a lot of poetry and more, which is all found on this blog.
  • I took thousands of photographs.
  • I forgave.
  • I sought forgiveness.
  • I learned the concept of service as a form of recovery.
  • And started going to AA meetings.
  • My children turned 21, 11, 10 and eight and Tom 48.

My father has been dead almost six years but I have yet to “bury” him.

  • I’d like to bury my dad this year.
  • And take my kids to England & Scotland.
  • I plan to seek peace, in my relationships, through my service to others, any way I can.
  • And keep short accounts with people.
  • Reach out to others not expect them to reach for me.
  • I’d like to photograph more carefully.  And learn from others.
  • And exhibit a project.
  • Set up my studio.
  • Eat more like a vegetarian and study natural health remedies.
  • Work out daily, for my mental health.

Lastly, I’m thinking of taking some seminary courses with the possibility of some degree. Tom asked me the other night what are the major or minor things that I did not do because I was strangled by my relationship with my dad.

I didn’t study when, what, and where I wanted and I’m going to work on that this year.

This is going to get some tweaking over the next few days, but those are my musings on turning 43.

Here’s what I wrote about turning 42.

Storing September

DSC_1867 copyMy Mother gave me a book of poetry by Elizabeth B. Rooney and I was reminded of it today, with fall on its way.

Storing September
by Elizabeth B. Rooney
You ask me what I did today.
I could pretend and say,
“I don’t remember.”
But, no, I’ll tell you what I did today —
I stored September.
Sat in the sun and let the sun sink in,
Let all the warmth of it caress my skin.
When winter comes, my skin will still remember
The day I stored September.
And then my eyes —
I filled them with the deepest, bluest skies
And all the traceries of wasps and butterflies.
When winter comes, my eyes will still remember
The day they stored September.
And there was cricket song to fill my ears!
And the taste of grapes
And the deep purple of them!
And asters, like small clumps of sky…
You know how much I love them.
That’s what I did today
And I know why.
Just simply for the love of it,
I stored September.

Splintered Truth


…

Originally uploaded by M e l o d y

This is not the end.

It is just another day.

A bitter clutching.

Somehow she will love, enough.

And will continue to speak truth.

Their voices are her voices

which hold power for her, only

if she listens

to the clutch of their ancient lies.

Murky in message, mighty in corruption.

She will not surrender to their splintered truths.

This is just another day

to hold on to her children’s laughter,

to their questions, to their need.

These she grabs on to fiercely

and holds on another day;

telling herself the truth found in wanting

[laughter, questions, need]

more than ancient lies and madness.

She is strong.

As she speaks there is found a certainty

in the granules of this goodness, pure and sweet.

this epic grief

this Epic Grief

September 13, 2009


Minutes tick.  Limbs twitch.  Covers are tangled & awry.  I think I am almost under, when I realize that I have been awake for hours.

It is too late.  Sleep eludes me.

In the darkness I lay back again.  And again.  And  again.

My mind full of  shadows; ripples of awareness & memory.  Weariness.  Need. Needing anything besides my irrational, wild, anxious thoughts. Have I always felt so lonely?  Have I always had this epic grief?

It seems as if I was born lonely, afraid, ashamed. distrusting.  My heart in pieces.   One of my strongest childhood memories.

But hold on.  Pain must have a beginning.

Was it there before I was?  There in the hearts of my mother and father?

Was it as real to them? The waking dream.  The dreamless sleep.  A quiet pulse, ever present.

Did they pass this madness on to me, through blood and tears of a generational grief?

I am sleepless and crazy with sadness that in times past I would have gladly drowned with alcohol, or any other intoxicant.

But dry, I am left with this epic grief.

Days and years. Years and days of working at sobriety.

Because dry, without the work, I am simply left amongst my dreams.

Left

with this epic grief.


Writing poetry helps me feel something to its extreme.  To go as far as the madness allows and still remain sane.  And then — somehow — come back to a place of semi-sanity.  It helps me to write.  And I hope that it helps someone else as well.  I think that is why I share though some would say “A cry for help.” Ha, ha.  That is so.

Random Sadness (a poem)


God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks to us in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: It is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.     C.S. Lewis

Random sadness cannot be shaken

or filled up with things that may have worked before

food or drink,

distractions of children,

hard work,

general busyness,

exercise,

or even photography.

Random sadness, following me

like a weight on my neck and shoulders.

Sleep, my usual solace only brings bad dreams.

I cannot run from this

random sadness

which will be my constant companion today.

Melody Hanson
1 Nov 08