The Attic
Being a visual learner, I often visualize my feelings and emotions. I want to share something that I have learned and maybe give ideas to someone else. I have described my mind as a museum with different rooms having different memories. The good memories are there for all to see. The bad memories upstairs, under lock and key. The museum is detailed in some poetry.
Lately, the museum has given way to The Attic. Growing up we had an attic where all the "stuff" was stored. Momentoes, seasonal decorations, and the like, all in boxes. Well, I took that imagery and started looking at things as if they were in boxes.
Some boxes hold wonderful memories and I like going back and opening those up now and again. However, there are a number of boxes that aren't happy memories, but bad ones that I don't want to see. Then there are boxes that are still sealed. Usually, those are memories that haven't been processed completely yet.
But hidden behind the boxes, in the dark lies "the corner." It's that dark and scary place that threatens to just suck the joy and life from you. I've gotten lost in that corner once. People who cared about me rescued me and stopped me from letting go altogether.
I have written a poem about the attic as well as the museum. I've only shown these writings to my therapist and a good friend. I hesitate to post them, not because I worry about criticism or negative reactions. I worry that my words might set off someone else. Growing up, I always was taking care of everyone else. It was my job to keep the peace, to not upset the status quo. However, I feel like I need to start sharing my story as well as ways I can get my feelings out to deal with them. So here's what I want to do. I will post the poems each as replies to this post. There will be trigger warnings in the title and before the work. So no one can say they weren't warned.
TRIGGER WARNING: This could trigger some people.
The Attic
Inside my head, an attic sits;
Where memories are stored.
In boxes piled, both old and new;
Calling to be explored.
Some affixed with caution tape,
Some wrapped with pretty bows;
And some have nothing closing them,
Their content clearly shows.
There are times the attic calls;
It’s time to open more.
It can be a happy time
Or leave me hurt and sore.
I do not know what there awaits;
Anxiety goes wild.
I’d rather not look in the box;
Unsure of what’s been filed.
Happy times are a welcome sight.
Their contents on display.
Laughter, joys, and happiness;
In these, I like to play.
Like the one all colored pink;
Two daughters loved the most.
Knowing that they’re daddy’s girls.
Is something I can boast.
Another box that’s in full view
Has holidays and such.
Family, friends, and others too;
Great to be back in touch.
There are two boxes marked for mom.
Unusual as that might be.
A happy one that’s full of love;
That people got to see.
The second box is not so nice,
The mom I’d grown to fear.
She’d scream and holler loud and long;
She’d make you wanna stay clear.
No matter what I said or did,
It wasn’t good enough.
You won’t amount to anything,
And other nasty stuff.
There is a box chained up real tight,
With horrors deep inside.
A red-haired monster lies within;
Events from which I’ve cried.
Like the time he screamed at me,
Hey boy, what’s wrong with you?
He grabs and squeezes hard and tight
Says, “Now I see.” That’s true.
One box contains a cross and stole,
It starts as joy you see.
But in the end, I’m pushed aside
There’s pain and misery.
Now here’s a box I hate to have,
The time my heart was broke.
The vows we made, she cast aside.
I want you gone, she spoke.
But other boxes do command,
Attention here and there.
So I open one with trembling hand
And into it, I stare.
New boxes come from time to time.
As memories are made.
Both good and bad, happy and sad;
Things I would never trade.
The boxes hide a space that’s dark,
A corner, cold and black.
When e’er it beckons me to come,
I need to fight it back.
It’s most appealing when alone;
Into it I will stare.
Inviting me, and tempting me;
Enticing me in there.
The corner’s a familiar place,
It’s one I know too well.
I’ve spent a lot of time in there,
Under its frightening spell.
It sucks the life right out of you,
And drags you deeper still;
Until the joy is gone from life,
And so is strength of will.
Only once it swallowed me whole
Where I gave up the fight.
But those who would not let me go,
They kept me in the light.
It’s always present, this dark place,
Inviting me to stay.
But mem’ries of my dark despair
Help me to stay away.
There’s those who help me to resist.
I know how much they care.
Family, couns’lor, others too
Help keep me out of there.
It cannot be destroyed it seems.
It stays to torture me.
Destroy’d no, but conquered yes;
You just wait and see.
PapaJeff59
2023
TRIGGER WARNING. This poem has a little more graphic description of abuse. Please, make sure you're in a good place before reading.
This poem has some names starred out as well as one possibly triggering word. And now, welcome to the Museum of my mind.
The Museum of my Mind
Take a trip inside my complex mind,
A museum of things to see.
Some things are on display and shown,
But some will never be.
This room you’ll find the happy child,
With birthdays and the like,
From hockey gear, and games and such
Topped off with a brand new bike.
The room on left is filled with love.
A little girl and little boy
Childhood friends now all grown up
Declare their love with joy.
These next few rooms are classroom styled,
First room shows Queens, New York
It’s while we’re there a visit comes
From who else, but the stork.
From Queens we move Lincoln Land.
Springfield is the place
Two struggling years but yet there’s joy.
Another girl by God’s good grace.
Then back up north to Arlin’ton Heights,
The years had their pleasantry
The highpoint, new to most you see
Sunshine Puppet Ministry
The next room glows with baby pink
Two little girls, two years apart.
May not have been given everything,
But have known love from the heart.
To give this up and start again,
The hardest choice is made.
Resign and start at Sem’nary
I knew I’d make the grade
At the end of the hall, a chapel stands,
Where a cross and stole do hang.
Preach and teach, care for souls,
With joyful hymns, they sang.
Round the corner and you must admire
What looks chaotic and wild.
Stands tall and patient, giving, kind
The man: peaceful and mild.
Up the stairs, behind locked doors,
A place where few will head,
This is the room where horror lives,
And angels fear to tread.
On the left is the other mom,
The one I’d grown to fear.
She’d scream and holler loud and long,
She makes you wanna steer clear.
No matter what I said or did,
It wasn’t good enough.
You won’t amount to anything,
And other nasty stuff.
Next to her, a classroom stands,
A redhead beast you see.
With board in hand for paddling,
His target often me.
“What’s wrong with you?” he stands and screams,
Pulling my shorts on down.
He looks down says, “Now I see.”
With disapproving frown.
He must be toughened up you see.
My parents did agree.
He’ll be a man by time I’m done.
You just wait and see.
When I couldn’t be what he expects,
The angrier he got.
I cried and shook throughout with fear
Just made him mean and hot.
If you’re gonna cry like little girl,
I’ll treat you in that way.
Face down upon those old gym mats
He r**** me on that day.
S****, Fr***, and several more,
Doubted if I could teach.
At, Sem the Dean of Students S****
Questioned if I should preach.
At the end of ministry,
The church was done with me.
Got very mean and real ugly
Doubted my integrity.
This room of horrors scares me so
It’s left some nasty scars.
I try not to go there much,
So the room is locked with bars.
When you look at the museum whole,
It may strike you as odd,
That for each piece I can declare,
I thank you, O my God.
Throughout the scenes of my life,
The Lord has seen me through
It is my duty: Thanks and Praise!
This is most cer’inly true!
PapaJeff 59
2018
