The pandemic saved my life in many ways, but one of the most critical has been my discovery of and love affair with poetry (and writing classes in general). I am forever grateful to my professor/writing mentor and the inspiring women who have shared my Tuesday nights for the past two-and-a-half months and who understand, appreciate, and applaud my efforts to explore the darkness in search of my light.
This piece came out of one such poetry class in February. I wrote it as I was waiting for my daughter to finish therapy and all I could think was “I wish I could fix you …”
The Broken Parts I Share With My Daughter
You’re somewhere
behind the heavy wooden door
facing me
from across the empty room,
where I’m waiting
for your therapy session to end,
the silence screaming at me
to write.
I see you
Crying, trembling, in a trance
Eyes wide
in panic
I wish I could fix you
Yet all I do is lash out
in anger.
“Isabella, that’s enough!” I cry.
“This has to stop!”
“How do you expect to get better
when you refuse to help yourself?”
Tears pool in your glistening eyes, and
I hang my head
in shame.
Why do I do that?
It’s not as if you’re doing it on purpose
What child burns
for mental suffering, nightmares, fear?
Thirteen months
have passed
since anxiety broke you—
an eternity—
and I’m tired.
Maybe I’m not cut out for this job
Maybe I lack what better moms have—
patience, understanding, empathy.
How can I help you, save you
when I can’t
help or save myself?
I’ve tried
writing
baking
music
art, poetry, mentoring, hosting, therapy, exercise, alcohol, binge eating, dinner dates,
even medication.
Nothing numbs, soothes, or restores
the whole or broken parts of me.
I am unfixable and I created you.
*Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash.
Sabrina, I believe every single mother can write this poem but not so eloquently as you.
My heart wishes for you and your daughter to find peace, love and understanding. Motherhood is hard, but you are doing the very best you can. We all are with what we learned.
My love to you, Sabrina.