NOTHING TOUCHES ME

In the healing process one comes to realize that only a limited amount of talking or counseling can heal a broken heart.  Solitude and time are the only way to come to terms with emotions and fractured thoughts and feelings.  We need time to journey alone within our own minds and find peace there.

NOTHING TOUCHES ME

I drift.  I bob.  Nothing touches me.  I float weightlessly.  I am free.  The coldness of the water comforts me and makes me feel warm.  It holds me close and lifts me up.  The current carries me where ever it is going.  No direction, no destination.  Time is meaningless.  I am content in my silent world.  I am at peace.  Slowly I am beginning to heal.

Life and the living pass me by.  I am unaffected.  In my solitude I am safe. Expectations and unkind words, though kindly intended,  cannot touch me.  Quiet! sweet quiet!  In that silence I find a place where frayed nerves and a screaming mind can settle and begin to mend.  I drift.  I bob.  Nothing touches me.

SUICIDE AWARENESS DAY - February 22, 2011

Today I was ask to remember things I want to forget
Things buried deep inside. Too soon. I'm not ready. Not yet.
Why now? Why today? Why can't today just fade away?
A date on the calendar. That's all. The same as any other day.

Why must I remember these things about how you died?
In my mind all these things are only a black silhouette
An outline of things I've pushed aside. Emotions collide
About memories buried inside and events I've tried to deny.

I've closed my mind's eye to the events of that fateful day
And now you ask me to have these things in my mind replay
In a mind and in a heart just beginning to heal -part way
Fate is knocking; tells me there should be no more delay.

Stand up, speak up, get your head out of the ground
The truth about suicide must be told to all around
Without sharing no change will ever be brought about
We need each other if hearts are to heal and solutions found.

My son made the ultimate sacrifice. Was it part of God's plan?
Did He need another voice to make His children understand
That compassion for suffering and pain is much more than
Just words. We must open our hearts, extend a helping hand.

The word must be spread over this and other lands -near and far away
Depression is an illness; bullying must be stopped without further delay.
Differences accepted. We must educate - our message must be conveyed
In public halls, through social networking, television, and writing essays.

Our voices will not be silent. Silent killer of the young and old alike
Hear us! We will not be stopped. The voices of those you've claimed will be heard
From the grave and beyond. We will say what they cannot. We will tell Their stories
And ours. And their memories will not fade away.

This our promise to you dear mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, daughters, sons,
Aunts, uncles, grandfathers, grandmothers, soul mates, beloved friends,
Your deaths will not be in vain. You will be our strength and our inspiration.
We will educate, we will love and nurture our fellow man.
We will be there with a kind word and a helping hand.

We will fight the good fight
And you will never be forgotten.

IF ONLY PRETEND COULD BE REAL

IF ONLY PRETEND COULD BE REAL

I am a big girl now but even big girls need to pretend sometimes.  I could pretend that I'm five years old and life had only recently begun.  I could pretend to put on a cute pink princess dress and place a "diamond" tiara on my head and plastic high heels on my feet and whirl and twirl around the living room.  I could pretend to sit on a tiny wood chair and drink tea from little "china" tea cups placed on a small wooden table in the nursery.  I'd eat little cookies off small flower decorated plates with all my dolls and teddy bears in attendance.

Or maybe I'd do a bigger girl daydream of fancy hats, high collared, ornately embroidered Victorian dresses.  I could pretend to pile my curled hair up high on my head; and pull a fancy laced-trimmed, feathered hat down over my carefully coiffured curls and tie the ribbon under my chin; and button tiny pearl buttons on the standup collar tight around my neck.  It would all be so elegant.

I could get lost in those big, over-done clothes.  Lost in the clothes, lost in the game of pretend.  Lost in the

game of life.  

I could pretend that January 18th didn't happen.  I could pretend you are still here.  Pretend you never left us.  We could sip tea together from our china tea cups; OR we could magically be transported to Victorian England of the 1800's.  We would pull on our kid leather gloves -  yours would be black and fit the contours of your hands perfectly;  mine would be the cream beaded ones made especially for me and purchased in Italy when I was 18.   I'd remove my silk parasol from the umbrella stand and you your elaborately carved walking cane; and we would stroll down the boulevard in our formal Victorian walking fashions.

We would end our walk at a little outdoor cafe and sit in their rose garden.  The sweet scent of velvet petaled roses would fill the air.  We'd order rose-hip tea with cream and sugar.  High tea would be served on the Queen's china and placed on a lace covered table for two.  A plethora of tiny flower-decorated petit fours would accompany our tea and be served on a tiered cake plate.  A smaller plate would hold tiny tea sandwiches.  Even though you would enjoy something more manly,  you'd humor me and pretend you liked those dainty little cakes and tiny cucumber and watercress sandwiches as much as I did.

Yes, you would like that---- getting all dressed up and going out.  You would be the most handsome man in the outdoor cafe.  Everyone would think what a fine young man you were to spend such a glorious day with your mother.

The game would be so much fun.  We would laugh and check out the outfits on the imaginary people and drink our tea with grand, high browed manners.  And wipe the corners of our mouths with the edge of our lace-trimmed linen napkins.  The day would be bright and sunny without a cloud in the sky.  Blue birds would be sitting in the trees surrounding the garden singing their sweet little songs.  Everything would be perfect.  No pain, no sadness.  No sorrow.  Just you and me sharing a perfect day.

If only pretend could be real.

THE TRUTH HIDDEN

I am hidden in a place you cannot see.  I pull on my cloak of invisibility.  Inside, hidden is the real me.  

You look at my face and think you know how I feel

Smiling and laughing. You say "she must be healed".

But my face is a mask. True feelings are not revealed.

My face is a lie. My pain I hide.  Everything is concealed.

You want to know the truth?  Do not look at my face.

But look instead at my hands.  My hands are the place

That shows what my face will not. They do not hide or erase

What I feel-tension, sadness, anger, or fear. Truth is embraced

By my hands.  If I want them to or not.

Linda DuBos