A Million and One ...

The Untrustworthy Speaker


Don't listen to me; my heart's been broken.
I don't see anything objectively.

I know myself; I've learned to hear like a psychiatrist.
When I speak passionately,
That's when I'm least to be trusted.

It's very sad, really: all my life I've been praised
For my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight-
In the end they're wasted-

I never see myself.
Standing on the front steps. Holding my sisters hand.
That's why I can't account
For the bruises on her arm where the sleeve ends . . .

In my own mind, I'm invisible: that's why I'm dangerous.
People like me, who seem selfless.
We're the cripples, the liars:
We're the ones who should be factored out
In the interest of truth.

When I'm quiet, that's when the truth emerges.
A clear sky, the clouds like white fibers.
Underneath, a little gray house. The azaleas
Red and bright pink.

If you want the truth, you have to close yourself
To the older sister, block her out:
When a living thing is hurt like that
In its deepest workings,
All function is altered.

That's why I'm not to be trusted.
Because a wound to the heart
Is also a wound to the mind.

Louise Gluck

I'm sure a million other people have blogged this very same poem for various reasons of their own. Truth - even that which is seen with the borrowed words of another - still retains its authenticity among kindred spirits. In some ways, we are all the walking wounded, carrying around old hurts and broken dreams. And haven't I too felt the weight of my own invisibility, the words that course through me like molten lava at my core and listened to the sound of my own voice betray me as if it were not mine to own.

And me, I have been much like a tightly wound cord, wrapping myself and all my hurts in a binding so tight that I gloried in my control. But these past few months I've been unraveling - years and years of hurt I always knew I had but wasn't ready to admit to or deal with.

Perhaps it is an explanation as to why the winter seemed eternal here, as if the cold had somehow seeped into my bones, and frozen me in place to shiver with its contempt. I thought to myself that this was what dying must feel like, the absence of everything. And for a short time, there were moments when I felt like giving up and letting go just to be done with the pain. But those thoughts - even as they crossed my mind - were quickly discarded. I have walked away from many things, but God spared me from having to walk away from myself.

Even now as the first Spring flowers show their faces above the ground, I am rebuilding my foundation, digging deep into the core of who I am and what I want. There are some things that I will not accept less than what I should be offered. And for these things, I am non-negotiable. And even if I am the only one who values me, I am still worth every choice I make to solidify my future.

I will find the light. I will feel it on my face. And I will go on ...