The Breach
Divorce forces fractures
in a heart that’s barely five.
Tears stain cuddled teddy bears
in midnight muffled cries.
In dreams, I reach for mom’s embrace.
In daylight, long to see her face,
but cannot breach the miles.
—–
Abuse bruises terror
in a fragile ten-year brain.
Tears disguised in rivulets
stream down the shower drain.
In fear, I reach for dad’s protection.
Lonely, long for his affection,
but cannot breach his pain.
—–
Hatred hardens mortar
‘round a fifteen-year old heart.
Tears, for years now, all run dry
with voice too hoarse to call.
In angst, I reach inside for peace.
Though numb, I long for sweet release,
but cannot breach my walls.
—–
Crisis crushes crust
from a twenty-year old soul.
Tears burst forth to soften ground
past parched and frozen cold.
In hope, I reach for tender hands,
long last find the strength to stand
and finally breach grief’s hold.
Author’s Notes:
Around age 5, my world was shattered by my parent’s divorce. I remember longing for my mother, unable to understand why she was gone.
By age 10, I had endured the torture of being torn between two families, being asked to declare my love for one parent over the other while they fought it out. Emotional strain and physical abuse left me in chronic stress. The only place I felt safe to sob my tears was in the shower where no one would see. I longed for my father in those years to intervene, to spend time with me. But at all the times I needed him, he was passive, absent or distant. My only guess is that he was too wrapped up in his own pain to be present in mine.
By age 15, I was all out of tears. It was actually at age 12 that I pledged to myself that I was done crying, done being weak. I would be strong and shut myself down if that’s what it took. And I didn’t cry for a good 5 years.
By age 20, I reached a mental and physical health crisis that shattered me. But that brokenness got me to counseling I had desperately needed to take my first steps toward healing. That was a pivotal time in my life where I grew a spine, realized that my parent’s problems were theirs — and didn’t have to be mine.
I wish the story had a completely happy ending. But the truth is that trauma affects us all our lives. We can heal the wounds, but the scars stay with us.
