When the the limbic system (the part of the brain that processes emotion) is overwhelmed, the part of the brain responsible for language is temporarily disabled. Interesting then that I am always striving to put into words that which seems to defy definition: these fairly regular intense feelings that appear to have roots in my past. Perhaps I am trying to fill an earlier space in cognition, or am driven by a desire to describe the moments when I have lost my voice, to finally be heard. I've learnt that validation is extremely important to emotional well-being, us human beings need our experiences to be acknowledged if we are to relate healthily. To this aim I write, and it feels as if the words I pour out, which can take hours to sift through and make sense of, are waiting to be spoken aloud to the universe. Perhaps this is an integral component of healing; being heard.
Here is the result of my latest impulse to write. I'm not presenting it as a work to be appreciated as such, I am not even sure what to call it, although it looks like poetry on the page. My words are accompanied by a photograph of the some of the space I was staring into as I wrote... If you hear me, hola back...
Twinge – a work in progress. 11/01/18
That which I lost;
which I never had…
My game, my deceit,
or with deliberate intention;
self-subterfuge to a degree
attempting to master old wounds
and re-write history.
That which I lost decades ago
small and defenceless as I was
overwhelmed by overwhelm,
with insecure attachment:
a complex trauma
insignificant, but to me.
Broken into a void, unnoticed
shattered into silence;
a system in smithereens.
The fluttering emptiness in my chest
is distracting, even painful
and words I’ve lost too,
everything becoming sensation
Recollection makes my palms warm,
these surroundings appear surreal
layered with twinges in nerve endings
if I’m not careful, I forget to breath.
The present eclipsed by a shadowy past,
and in this moment,
I am lost.