I lived with a wonderful family in Cornwall in their charming century home. I was a boarder, and although I craved my alone space, being part of a family was a lifeline for me. I was reeling from lost love, self-hate, and being thrown into the open, no longer with any anchor (i.e. school). I felt so utterly lost and confused, and so I started to grasp on to futures, stories, trajectories – anything that would get me away from. . . me. This family believed in me, and it was because of them that I avoided descending permanently into isolated despair as I desperately tried to feel better.

There was – and is – a wiser side to me, to all of us, even in the midst of pain. Some call it the wise, compassionate adult. This part of me would tell me, when I started obsessing over what everyone else was doing, that I was crafting my own story. Given that this was my own story, by nature, it had to be different than anyone else’s. It would tell me that I had the ability – and the choice – to live this story and to rejoice in this story, but that it wouldn’t always be easy. Writing was my lifeline to this part of me, both writing in my journal and writing poetry. Along with my Cornwall family, this adult in me carried me through this pain.

I had much more to learn from this part of me – I still do. The funny part is, the same pain is still with me – the narrative of this pain has not changed, despite my circumstances. I can read my journal from 11 years ago, and it fits the same narrative of my pain today. But the adult part of me, its voice and narrative, has changed and evolved as I’ve grown. I’ve learned to listen to it more closely, and I’ve slowly unraveled its messages. The pain is stagnant – a holdover from my earliest days played out over and over again. I learn little from it, and it yields only more anguish. The wise part of me is forever teaching me, however. The real journey has been to listen and to trust it.

Definitions

Who would I be

If someone approached

And defined me

If I cut my food in the other direction

Asked an invisible thing for protection

Wore my hair a certain way

Raised one finger as if to say

I don’t like you very much.

 

Who would you be

If you used someone else’s name

And worshipped some god steadily

Except on Tuesdays

But other days

You were a procession, all in flame,

And worldly honour as you played that game

You played it well, and it defined you.

 

But sometimes, it seemed to me,

That this procession went in circles.

And it got old and silly.

That’s when I turned to look at me

And picked up the pen and wrote discerningly

That’s when I learned to craft my own story

And do away with definitions.