THE LOVELY AND NOT SO PRETTY POOLS. By Kenzie O’Hara

 

Reflection of a cloudless, pale blue sky in an azure lake surrounded by emerald green vegetation.  Quite an inviting scene.  This depicts inner peace.

 

A pool of calm lays deep within.  A place of harmony where all is well with the world, but then, an action, word, scent or memory coaxes a tiny ripple to the surface.

 

 

 

Many factors, health, mood, perceived slights, even the weather, and the slight undulations bubble and churn into an expansive muddy mess.

 

 

The journeys down long, half-forgotten trails of neglect, abandonment, illness, and life-threatening abuse to write my autobiography cast me into a sea of misery. Excruciating memories yanked, grabbed, and threatened to drown.

Crippled by near asphyxiation, staring at the ceiling, mouth agape, gasping precious life-sustaining oxygen into my lungs, I struggled to regain composure.

Haunting, disturbing nightmarish experiences jolted my consciousness like thousands of white-hot pokers punching through the bone of my skull, leaving ghastly gaping holes.

Oh, demons, why don’t you explode into nothingness as you disintegrate my head?

The effort to journal my tattered life for all others to witness, exhausted, depressed and bled my spirit, but pure determination urged me on. Too many uglies stayed hidden for far too long.

The time for the truth arrived. Free at last, the unspeaking mouth of a fearful little girl, the voiceless lips of an entrapped, terrified, abused woman, will now dare speak.

To put thoughts to paper creates tributaries through which the caustic happenings of the past filter. As each detestable mental image arrives, a battle ensues to flush the beasty from the polluted basin lurking in my soul.  Revelation of terrible truths assists the evacuation.

Good intentions, attempt to purify the corruptness through a cleansing silt of knowledge, faith, and humor. Triumphant, the remnants/debris spout in a massive volcanic plume far from my being.

Out, damn you!

Sweet victory isn’t always mine. Some recollections revert to the black, brackish abyss buried in my gut and wait to make their agony felt another day. What prompts success at one time and not another is unknown.

Real-life trauma occurred, remained ensconced in secrecy, created CPTSD (Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), and leaves a cesspool of depression.

A host of therapies tested, counseling, medication, meditation, yoga, and supplements, but the only therapeutic outlets that provide any source of comfort stem from creating art, and writing.

Via brushstrokes on canvas, pen to paper, typewritten blogs and journaling, the scared, ever-obeying child, the discarded and assaulted teen, the threatened and damaged wife, trumpets.

Many of my posts consist of unfathomable, often sad issues, but here is where my voice pronounces to the world the ill-effects of poor parenting, evil outside forces, unwise/uninformed decisions, and outright violent abuse.

Trained not to cry, keep every disgusting, damaging happenstance secret, at this late date, I claim my right to reveal, to purge, to weep, to enlighten.

 

My writings may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but the outpourings quiet the waters that churn and clarity is born. As I gaze upon the stilled surface within, tranquility returns.

For though I lived a far less than perfect life, I survived, with my heart, my essence intact. Not only can I now shed tears, but laughter flows up from the ever-diminishing murky pool of past transgressions.

Yes, serious, profound philosophical material indeed, but a river through which angst and suffering dissolve, and if not to complete extinction, at least to a more digestible sand.

If by my revelations, one person gains insight, hope, wonders as a teeny speck of humor surprises, well, what more can I ask?