You don’t know

You don’t know
How hard it is trying to help her
Navigate life
When she knows she is,
Feels she is different.
You think you can make it easier,
Hide it, until one day she asks
Why is it so hard for me and easy for them?
You try to put it in perspective, many
Others have much worse challenges to deal with,
But in her world, hers is all that matters,
At least for now.
You don’t know
When what is easy for your child,
Makes her feel tired, overwhelmed,
When the writing that for your child
Comes without thinking,
Tires her already tired brain.
You don’t know
How besides arranging therapy
And support of every kind,
There is an emotional side
That is overwhelming sometimes,
Most times.
You don’t know how much it hurts
When by her own attempts
She excels and you write a message
To ask if we are helping her answer.
You
Don’t
Know

You don’t know
How hard it is trying to help him
When only one side of his brain
Processes sound as it should,
How hard it is for him to process
An instruction in the noise of a
Fast-paced world,
How what it is easy for your child to
Interpret,
Most times is overwhelming
And so he sharpens his pencil
Incessantly, bites his nails
Or washes his hands
To control what he can
And mask his
Insecurity
Why am I different?
Why is it so hard?
You don’t know
And until you do
You
Don’t
Know

Copyright Hiraeth 2020

Wind

Sunset on the beach and there is a wind blowing slightly offshore. It makes the grains of sand dance around your ankles, it lightly whispers in your ear. It embraces you exactly where you are and plaits your hair in intricate patterns. Every now and then a gust comes through and wipes a tear from the corner of your eye. A tear that needed to be shed, was waiting to be heard. The wind dares not to know the truth, does not ask where you have been, who you have been, but echoes beauty, renewal, always glimpses of sun-kissed youth. It’s in these moments that for me, heaven and earth collide.

Copyright Hiraeth 2015

Full Circle

I saw it in your eyes,
Disappointment, hurt, betrayal and something new:
a scapegoat, someone to blame, a reason to declare off the rooftops.

She lost the plot, fell in love with someone else, left thinking that there was a future in that.
You couldn’t phone your parents, friends and any damn acquaintance fast enough. Speed dial. They had to know. Finally, it made sound sense. It wasn’t you, it wasn’t us, it was me.

Me and my stupidity, me and my lack of moral fibre, me and my forever searching for a love story, me not ever being satisfied, me and my unrealistic expectations of marriage.
Me and him.
This freaking cheeseball (“Who poses on Facebook all bulging biceps? Who I ask you? A cheeseball. You threw us away for a fucking cheeseball”) who claimed to love me and declared it lyrically in poems.
(And I, I was a robin soaring on wings of love)

And it made the truth easier, more deliverable, certainly more believable.

It also made it that much harder, when later we tried to reconcile.
Because every person you told looked down at me, judged me.
Look at what the cat dragged in…
(A mouse, a deceitful grey mouse)

All I needed was for you
to shield me,
to cover my weakness,
to hold my
truth
as
I
held
yours.

Copyright HiraethPhoenix 2014

The lies we tell

And this is what we tell
Ourselves to disguise the truth,
Make it more palatable, easier to digest, explain:
We grew apart, we consciously uncoupled, she had an affair, we fell out of love, he stole my wife, she has no moral code.
We tell it until it sounds believable, we practice the tone to make it sound truthful.
We tell everyone willing to listen, we feel we need to explain, to justify this unexpected end
(No one saw it coming –
It is a complete surprise)
We declare it off the rooftops.
And it is all lies.
Lies.
The truth is simpler, involving only us:
We drowned in our neglect.

Copyright Hiraeth 2014

Dramatic Production

I have a simple life philosophy now, one I test regularly to make sure I am on track with the type of life I want to create and maintain for myself. I tell myself about my life, like a narrator telling a story, I go through the details of mine and my test is quite simple: if at any point the story sounds like a dramatic production, complete with poster and tagline, I am off course.

I have found (through heartbreak, frustration and many tears) that the moment I find myself reciting a story that sounds like an episode off Jerry Springer, I am not living a life of promise, a life that will lead me to a place of gratitude and self realisation. I had to change direction. It was not easy and a few times I nearly returned to my starring role. I had to leave people I loved and cut ties with friendships that were meaningful. But the cost was small in comparison to the life that awaited me.

I think everyone has a few Springer episodes in their life, it is part of our journey of self discovery, but it shouldn’t become a place of permanent stay. Such situations will suck you dry emotionally and leave you in a wasteland where you no longer know yourself.

So try me, tell yourself your story, the play in which you now feature as one of the main characters. Tell it honestly, without embellishment or half-truths.

Tell it because you owe it to yourself.