poetry

I'd like to think
I'm just like
anyone else -
that we all have limits...
There's only so much
we can take...
So much -
Pain... Fear... Loss... Trauma.
There's only so much
any of us can experience
and remain sane
and remain true to
our ideals, our values,
WHO WE ARE
and
the person we have become.

When the pain,
the fear, the terror,
the trauma
exceeds this limit,
We snap
and for a while
we drift away...
away to someplace
in our mind,
someplace utterly unknown,
unexpected,
outside reality...
maybe we come back
and then again
maybe we don't...
It depends on what
might call us back.

Reflection: The above poem is inspired by the "confessional" poetry of Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath who wrote about their inner experiences, their psyche. They both took their lives. Anne Sexton wrote, "To Bedlam and Part Way Back" which was her collection inspired by mental illness and psychiatric hospitalization. I guess she never made it all the way back since she took her life. I made it back.

During one of the group therapy sessions,
I saw this small medium complexion
African American woman,
who appeared to hardly be alive,
she had this blank look,
expressionless.

I had asked an intern, Mary,
working under me,
to interview Karen,
for the routine social work intake.

After a short while, Mary returned
with Karen.
"Can you help Karen?"
Mary asked with a look of
desperation(?).

"I can stay," Mary added.

"No, I don't want you to see,"
answered Karen with shakiness
in her voice.

"I can help,"
I said, instinctually knowing
questions and concerns
Karen had.

Scanning the intake form,
I answered...
"You were raped,
I am so sorry this was done
to you." ...
my eyes remained,
though she looked down.

I paused adding softly,
"I can help.
We can go back
to when it happened."

"Will you come with me?"
she asked.

"My voice will go with you.
and I will be with you."

"First,
we need to create
the seemingly impossible -
relaxation
and
safety."

Slowly time passed as
empathy expanded between
us...
Until...
Karen's breathing and my own
became synchronized
with me guiding her toward
slower, deeper breathing.

I gained confirmation
that at this moment,
she knew,
she was safe.

"I am not leaving."

"Picture a movie theater,
in your mind.
You are still with me.
In your safe place.

Safe.

She nodded her understanding.

As you picture that screen,
far away,
you can remain safe
with me.

We discussed desensitization -
how her past trauma
would lose its power
to hurt her.

If it becomes too much,
we can return to your safe
and comfortable place.

She still had a look of peace.

If you are ready...

Begin to review and describe
what happened as it is
played out on that screen.

Can you see yourself?

Fear and pain gripped her
and suddenly, she grabbed my hand
squeezing it so hard.
My voice remained calm,
and softly soothing...
my words -
It's okay,
you are okay
Now.
I am not leaving you.
You are safe – now.
It's not happening – now.
It's over.
I'm not leaving you.

This went on for some time...
the unspeakable narrative -
a story witnessed by
victim
and therapist.

But it had an ending.
the trauma narrative
ended.

We re-established relaxation,
peace – serenity.
Her breathing slowed, again.

Her eyes opened.
The smile on her face
was amazing -
unexpected.

She was a different person -
alive.

"Thank you," she said.

"No, thank you,"
I answered.

I didn't need to explain,
that this was not about me,
nor did I explain,
that more healing
would be needed.

She was alive.

Some form of healing
had occurred
and it was celebrated
by both of us.

Addendum: The response by me "thank you," was a shared celebration of whatever amount of healing had occured and changed her.

The author of the book on "Emotional Intelligence, "Daniel Goleman, followed that book with a book entitled "Social Intelligence." In that second book Goleman describes research that relates the healing benefits of social attunement between the experience of client or patient and therapist. I, also, have often observed shame on the part of victims and an expectation of abandonment by their therapist if they only knew.

I wonder if this is avoided by some trauma therapy techniques that avoid any sharing of the actual narrative of the trauma with the therapist. For example, EMDR does not involve the client/patient vocalizing internal images or memories. 

I had the dream again.
Many years ago...
actually it
happened more than once -
the dream and the events that I relive
in the dream.

I've walked down lonely
frightening streets
in the dark,
sometimes lost
sometimes just knowing
I had a long way to go.
Telling myself all would be well...

Telling myself
that I wasn't alone
that there are people out there
that care about me
and will rescue me
before anything bad really happens,
though another part of me
feels the loneliness
a bit more oppressively
in moments like this,
when I realize
no one even knows
where I am,
much less cares,
when I'll be home.

My mind flashes back
to a time when this happened -
not sure how many years back.
I missed the last bus
and decided to walk...
thought I'd take a shortcut
but just got lost...
It got dark and very cold.
The winter streets were slick.

It's interesting what crosses your mind
in times like this...
thoughts about how close
they come to me,
the cars that come around each corner
their lights in my face...

and I think about how slippery
the street is
and how close the cars
seem to get to me
before they even notice I'm there
walking alone on this night.
Something I should not be doing,
should I?

I tell myself with each car approaching
that it will safely avoid me,
just like the car before me did...
and that the lightening
will wait
             will wait until I get home safely...
and the dogs I hear
will stay away,
not even noticing me...

These are things I tell myself
over and over
at times like this, 
trying to find comfort
in anything at all.
 

I've had this dream
more than once,
reliving real events
and I know it's a dream
this time
and I just wait
and hope
that the dawn
comes in time.

This is not what I wanted...
this place is not where I wanted
to be...
this city of desolation.
The land is parched...
The trees are bare -
they stand like burnt skeletns:
dead souless sentinels,
left as markers or
signs, signs of the times.
The sun no longer is seen;
each day brings only gray
flat, formless clouds above.
I cannot bear
this time, this place,
this reality.
Gone are most colors...
all that rmains are dark
shades of gray.
Some say the end is near.
They have more hope than I do.
I think this monotony,
days like this, these days,
will go on and on and on
forever.

I don't know if I"m dreaming or not,
I tell you but you answer, "You are awake."
It feels like a dream, and I declare
that you are not real!

And the people I hear, the voices,
the people I see - 
thay are no more real than
any of the other creations of my mind...
my dreaming (?) mind.

The people I see, and meet,
insist that I am awake, for if I were not awake,
then they, in fact, would not be real.

In fact, I'll declare that the way they act,
what they say, what they do,
Is an exact product of my own act of creation.

What a power!
If I can be asleep and yet
aware of this power, this creative power,
why would I ever want to awaken
from the dream,
and face a world where so much
is out of my own control?

I awaken to the alargm
but quickly fell back asleep...
in the dream I'm traveling home - 
wherver that was -
and something happens...
I'm alone, stranded somewhere - 
alone and scared.

The sound of knocking -
just a bad dream.

My cheeks are still burning.
Is it the fever?
Is this an illusion?
A dream?

This is that reality - that experience -
when dreams and reality overlap,
commingle and confuse. 
How do I know this
while dreaming?

There follows a sense of danger...
someone in thi sdark house -
I feel a shiver
as I look and see something....
someone in the doorway of my room.
I must wake up,clear my mind,
be certain that it is just part of a dream.

The bedroom door then 
seems to fade away -
farther and farther away.
"Get up!"
Did I say that?

Someone is coming at me...
the alarm - far away.

Finally the scene snaps back
toward clarity...
the room is empthy - quiet -
clearly no one is there...
no one is in the room.
The scene is now clear.

Still as if uncertain, as if
I had to find out for sure,
confirm that there is no danger,
that all is really safe,
I'm drawn back into that dream...
because it seems so real.

I thought for sure I had awakened,
just moments ago,
but it was just another illusion.

There are experiences
we would wish never happened...
memories re-experienced
again and again,
without warning,
like a knock on the door
that you wished you had ignored....
a call that you wish you missed...
a place so dark
it never leaves you....
infinity that cannot be cured -
or so it seems...
you know this will be
a part of you, forever,
Always showing up uninvited.

PS: What we know
is not always true.

I am in a park,
somewhere.

I see a bird,
a black swan
with green markings—
an elaborate, abstract pattern.

I turn away.
When I look back,
the bird is gone.

In its place—
a beautiful black woman.

I am drawn to her,
instantly,
without hesitation.

She approaches,
her eyes knowing.

"You act as if you
do not know me."

"Should I?"

"I have always been part of you.
The source of your comfort,
what you have sought
to find."

"Come with me,"
she says.

And I follow—

as light merges with light,
nothing lost,
nothing cast back in shadow.

Commentary:

This was a dream I had decades ago, partially during hypnosis. At the time, I wasn’t sure why it stayed with me, but now I realize it was revealing something I hadn’t fully questioned before.

As I was thinking about sharing this poem, I noticed a decorative black bird outside a house and thought, aren’t most swans white? That small moment led me to reflect on how deeply language and perception shape what we see as beautiful, valued, and familiar.

Western culture has long associated blackness with negativity, invisibility, or being "less than." The term “black sheep” carries an undeserved stigma. And yet, in my dream—without hesitation, without doubt—what I saw was warmth, beauty, and familiarity.

Why is that?

Why does society condition us to overlook what is naturally beautiful, what is already there?

And why—if culture has ingrained these biases so deeply—did I instinctively feel something so different at my core?

I’ve read about these biases in social psychology research, I’ve heard them in conversations, and I know how powerfully they shape perception. But if so much of society operates under this framework—why did my subconscious reject it so completely?

Psychologically, warmth is associated with comfort—skin against skin, touch, presence. White, in some contexts, represents coldness, sickness, or sterility (white as a sheet), while darker skin often feels physically warmer to the touch.

But do most people notice this?

Or does society teach us to ignore, to devalue, to assume something else?

This dream forced me to confront how instinct and cultural conditioning are often at odds. While I had been taught one narrative, my deepest self saw something different—something true.

Maybe this is an invitation for others to ask themselves:

What have I been taught to see? And what might I truly recognize—if I let myself?

"My job is not
to make you happy,"
says Leticia, the therapist
whose name means
full of joy.

I don’t understand.

Then what is your job?
What are we working toward?
What is therapy for
if not to create something
other than depression?

Feelings change.
Be mindful.
Observe.
Describe.
Participate.

Move away
from thinking about what is happening.
Be present.

But—

I notice sadness.
I want to notice happiness.

Is that not a goal?

"You were held back
by thoughts about the situation."

But what if I am held back
by the situation itself?

Consider this.

I once assessed
why a woman needed
a psych evaluation.

"I am here because
I am too happy," she said.

"That is strange, isn’t it?" I asked.

Surely, there was more
to her story.

Or consider Lucia.
Lucia is 14.

Asked when she remembers
being happy,
she cannot remember
such a time.

I suspect Major Depression.
I suggest therapy,
so she can feel happy.

What is your role, Leticia?
Let’s talk about goals.

Because if I asked you—
"Are you happy?"
your answer would
forever change,
according to your philosophy.

But I—

I have known a time
when I was happy.

A time when
happiness lived in me—
not fleeting,
not conditional,
not something to simply observe
and let pass.

A time when,
despite transient moments of sadness,
I was still happy at my core.

And yet—

Even then,
out of habit,
I told the person I loved,
"I am depressed."

Words that no longer fit me.
Words that once defined me.
Words that could hurt her—
make her believe
she brought me no happiness.

But happiness had changed me.
It lived inside me.
It did not deny sadness.
It did not erase struggle.

And yet,
it remained.