Trapped in the System

Thu, 09/18/2014 - 02:01 -- DaSm11

Locations

95961
United States
39° 2' 15.0648" N, 121° 33' 35.406" W
95961
United States
39° 2' 15.0648" N, 121° 33' 35.406" W

Not many will understand and that is ok. I write for me. I write because I have no other outlet. No one

knows the pain I have went through.

Physically,

Mentally,

Emotionally,

Spiritually.

How does a person begin to explain their life?

At a very young age, with an alcohol co-dependant, mentally disturbed mother,

I was sent away to treatment.

Forced to take medication, I forgot who I was.

Barely remembered where I came from. The only thing that came naturally, school.

Years of recovery and here I am. Writing.

Expressing myself in the only way that seems acceptable and harmless.

A young mother, raising my children alone.

Free from treatment, but still trapped by my memories.

 

Comments

ArieLuvv

heart breaking yet beautiful

erinnicoleadams

Filters find us everywhere, from Instagram to life

A mask that hides our troubles, our worries and our strife.

But what’s behind the filter, the world would like to know,

Because without it you are natural, and it will help you grow.

Scars and marks of failure that were covered up from shame,

Come out to show the world that not everyone is the same.

A scar you have show’s strength but that sometimes we all fall,

It shows that from the bottom, you fought to stand up tall.

A filter hides the pain and sadness we may feel,

But sometimes we must show the sadness we can’t conceal.

It doesn’t make you weak or show that we aren’t tough,

To show your fears and sorrows tells the world you’ve had enough.

Enough of all the masks that cover up who you are,

Enough of all the filters that keep your feelings in a jar.

Look at yourself, filter free, and know that you are strong,

Because the things we hide may come to show us we belong. 

mphynes25

Winning!!

That is the best response to such a poem anyone could have thought of. Probably why nobody has taken the time to post anything else. I have a small shred of advise for the original author of the poem this one was in response to. 

While struggling with some of my own memories of life, I had called upon a friend. Begging the question "When will this end? When do the images stop! It has been years, and I still have flashbacks." His response;

"It is like an open wound at first, always bleeding and hurting. Over time it becomes a scab, occassionally something will bump it, causing it to bleed again for a little while. Eventually it becomes a scar, something you carry with you."

Here is to scars!

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741