I Still Live

[CassKD]

As I inch closer and closer to the two-year anniversary of my boyfriend's motorcycle accident (the 23rd of this month), I've been spending a lot of time pouring over old notes, pictures, and the like. A few minutes ago, I ran across this poem I wrote as part of the creative writing class I was enrolled in during the semester following the accident. At the time, the idea of "still living" was a hopeful abstract; in many ways, I guess it still is. However, there's something poignant and heartbreaking and beautiful about knowing that everything I felt in those moments of raw anguish and feebleness -- the good and the bad -- still exists inside me after all these months.

Anyway, I thought I'd share the poem here with you guys in the hopes that someone will relate to it, and that maybe it will provide some of the solidarity we come to this group searching for. I know many of you are still in the very early processes of grieving, when everything stings bitterly pretty much every moment of every day. I'm not here to tell you it gets simpler with time -- it doesn't. The hurt is still there, the love and longing is all still there. However, I do think we learn to deal with our transformed lives. The weight we carry makes us weak and slow at times, but it also makes us stronger. 

Two years later, through the best and worst days, I'm still living. Sure, sometimes participating in life involves a serious commitment, a struggle, or maybe even, sometimes, having enough respect for my mental health to throw my hands up and allow myself to allow the waves of grief to crash over me; but I'm still breathing, still finding reasons to laugh, still enjoying the way the birds sound when they wake me up in the morning and the crickets outside my window late at night when I can't sleep... So I guess what I'm saying is, that's something at least. Time won't really heal our wounds, but we do have the conscious choice to give up or to commit to allowing the pain to turn us into more conscientious, intuitive, strong people.

 

I Still Live

 

I still live beneath the weeping willow tree

In the yard you only ever saw in photographs;

Where I spent my day the day the phone rang and I

Couldn't say a word.

And my tree,

My tree wept with me.

 

I still live in memories of you,

So supple and smooth,

Your ocean eyes, your autumn curls,

I still live in a world

Where young love grows old, sometimes,

Where you and I live for crisp breeze, bright sunlight.

 

I still live in the cracks of cobblestone streets I cannot return to.

I still live beneath you

On the banks of the river near your grandmother's home,

You swore our love was like the sea flowing on and on, and

I knew you jinxed it.

But I wanted to believe it.

 

I still live,

Though lips grow cold and Hell on my heels feels hot,

I still live though you do not,

Still spend my time thinking,

Still singing

Every song I ever wrote for you at the top of my lungs like a hymn.

I begin

To speak your name but my voice wears thin, and I miss you,

But I get through.

I still live, as best I can.

I understand

That your ripe blood smeared on the fresh green grass

Is a piece of our past,

And a part of this moment.

I still live alone, but I know that

Someday, that might change,

And that's okay.

 

I still live each day like every breath is a miracle,

Something spiritual.

I've been told that, somehow, you're there,

Be it in Heaven or the clean mountain air,

So I carry your face in my heart like a locket,

Keep your smile in my pocket,

Pull it out when I desperately need

A reason

To believe.

 

I still live beneath the weeping willow tree.

[claribassist13]

Your poem is beautiful. I wish I had such a talent for words as you do. 

It's an interesting concept, that of "still living". How often have I asked myself whether or not the life I live now is any sort of a life at all? I think we all feel this way at some point. When our loved ones die they take large pieces of us with them, and it's hard to know if there is enough of you left to keep going on. 

Thank you for sharing your beautiful work!

[KayC]

8 hours ago, CassKD said:

Time won't really heal our wounds, but we do have the conscious choice to give up or to commit to allowing the pain to turn us into more conscientious, intuitive, strong people.

You are so right!  It does boil down to attitude and choice, and it's so important to put effort into our grief work.

Your poem is beautiful.  It's important to do things like this to help us with our healing.  Here are some links for other ways to express and process our grief:
http://www.expressiveartworkshops.com/expressive-art-resources/100-art-therapy-exercises/

http://www.whatsyourgrief.com/grief-art-journal-activity-for-grievers/

http://blog.sevenponds.com/professional-advice/what-is-expressive-arts-therapy-an-interview-with-adriana-marchione

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/10/13/coloring-for-stress_n_5975832.html

http://www.griefhealingblog.com/2011/03/using-art-as-path-for-healing.html

My daughter went through a trauma years ago and I was able to get her a counselor that used art therapy.  She loved art so I thought it'd be a great way for her to express herself.  Others use writing or music, whatever speaks to you.

[CassKD]

Thanks, guys. Trying to figure out how to make something out of nothing is a topic I spend a considerable amount of time ruminating on. KayC, thank you so much for the links. I love art therapy and am looking forward to spending some time reading through all of those when I get off work this evening.

[claribassist13]

3 hours ago, KayC said:

My daughter went through a trauma years ago and I was able to get her a counselor that used art therapy.  She loved art so I thought it'd be a great way for her to express herself.  Others use writing or music, whatever speaks to you.

The grief counselor I see now uses art therapy, and I absolutely love it.

[KayC]

That's great!  I used it when my husband died, it really helped.

[Parachute]

Nice poem Cass. I have found some measure of release in writing poetry also. We even used a little at her service.