You hope and wish for it every day of your life,
But when the floods of change finally come
All the newness scares you:
“Could it be!?”
“Is this really happening!?”
“Is this for real!?”
“What if it stops?”
Such a peculiar feeling, to not feel and see things the same way anymore.
To see the river finally flow in a different direction
Is a terrifyingly beautiful thing.
🖤
A
We have deeply ingrained expectations of who someone should be in relation to who we are, and so often we are disappointed.
It can feel like a devout betrayal when someone doesn’t respond the way we want or believe we need them to. But in bringing expectations to our interactions we become our own saboteurs.
Our loved ones – including friends – are capable of not being capable of nurturing us. This does not make them bad people. Rather, it makes them human beings on their own journey, just like you and me.
It is incredibly easy to take the road most travelled – one filled with judgement and contempt – when other people aren’t capable of being who we want them to be.
It is much harder to come to a place of acceptance in realizing the necessity in releasing what you think you need from someone, and instead, accepting that this is all they are capable of.
At least right now.
You should be able to do
What I think you need to do –
Mostly, Just be there for me.
But you just can’t
And I know it.
And I want to be generous
I want to understand that you don’t understand
But I’m so caught up in this hurt that we both got
I don’t know how
AS
Sometimes when things are going haywire in the old head, I take a big breath in, and on the exhale I say — “I am mercy.” Because I want to be mercy incarnate.
Mercy: an act of kindness, compassion, or favour — so says one of many definitions.
Mercy to me is release. It’s when you stop trying so hard to win the fight, or look the toughest, or be the best.
When you give in to what you are feeling and just feel it — even if it feels shitty.
Or when you give in to peace rather than going all-out gangbusters on some thought train that’s counterproductive and exhausting and annoying to think or speak of.
Mercy is like, “ugh, this way of thinking makes my skin crawl” so you choose to be compassionate and loving instead of fearful and aggressive.
Mercy is when you breathe through the rage, and plaster a smile on your face and say, “I fucking got this.” And then you walk away in your mind, with the swagger of a 90s supermodel in a George Michael music video because you are that solid on the fact that this love over hate thing is THE WAY to freedom.
I waver between forgiveness and rage at the speed of a coin flip.
I want them all to know…
Look what he did…
He strolls with false-pride,
as he’s never been known to say or feel the words,
I am sorry.
I get angry when I think about that.
Some days I find it incredibly difficult to live past survival mode when I recall that oftentimes,
the ones who are supposed to love us damage us.
And they don’t fill in the cracks with gold:
they leave us with gaping wounds, and zero guidance on how to heal them.
“Those aren’t mine,” they say.
Then it becomes something wrong with us – not them.
They anesthetize themselves of ownership,
and we inevitably begin to drown.
But we have to swim, whether they own what is theirs or not.
We have to break the cycle of trauma; it came from somewhere.
We have to chip away at the torment unworthiness brings,
and learn to thrive in a sea of survivalists:
learn to see that the snakes are just ropes,
though it’s difficult to differentiate between the two are times.
It’s hard to believe that there are people out there who would gladly take a turn filling in the cracks with us.
But they do exist.
We must learn to believe that.
Inspiration comes from the strangest of sources. And you’re never prepared for the moment. It just shows up and you have to act. Write down the though — holler at Siri to record a note if you’re driving. Whatever it takes.
I’ve been really into Chance the Rapper since watching him perform on the SNL Christmas show. It was such a great performance. That guy has got the gratitude, 100%. He glows with it.
Anyways, I was driving down the highway, past the airport — a plane was flying overhead and about to land — and as I listened to the words of his song I got goosebumps.
One thing I always do is follow the goosebumps.
So I wrote down some words, which turned into this poem below.
That’s what I did for many years. And since beginning a new course this week that delves into past trauma and pain, I’ve gained some valuable insight into the why behind the many dysfunctional behaviours and beliefs I held tightly to for so many years.
Here’s a new poem that came to me yesterday. Words are healing, and having the courage to share my truth has truly changed my life for the better. But it still scares the shit out of me. lol. Pretty sure it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but who cares about that right?
Feel free to check out one of my poems in the June edition of blank spaces magazine. The March issue is coming out soon as well, and although I’m not in it, I can’t wait to get my hands on it. Some top-notch talent within the pages of that lovely little magazine…
Some recently regurgitated poetry below. I say that because I think of so many things in the middle of the night and even during the day that I don’t write down, but they always come back to me in some way or another.
I have this theory that there are hairline fractures in my brain, and if I let a tiny little thought come through late at night, memories and ideas flood my mind.
If I didn’t have to work, it would probably make sense to just get up when that happens, and write down the thoughts until I feel less overwhelmed by them.
For some reason, 2 am me thinks this idea is ridiculous. One of these days though, I’ll have to give it a go, though.
Hairline fractures let the world in,
swallowed up by every person I’ve been.
A style shifting sheep; a tyrannical nurse;
fighting for your love with a worn out purse.
Desperate for cash and twisted affection,
looking for love in a vitamin D injection.
But the sun can’t fix what the clouds uncover,
and the pills have never resurrected what I’m trying to recover.
I can’t sew up my shell until the insides are fixed,
and there’s no way around the work: no short cuts, no tricks.
A.S.
I refer to myself as the emotional paramedic.
I can spot a traumatized person a mile away. And they can spot me just as easily, apparently.
I get a lot of random folks spilling their hearts to me. Sometimes it’s just a glimpse via a short, yet telling statement.
And sometimes it’s a full blow truth-bomb admission straight out of left field, made by someone who is desperate to be acknowledged.
I feel that. I know how important it is to feel and be acknowledged.
To me, this common occurrence is a gift. People feel safe around me. And safety is really important.
I daresay it is on the top 10 list of human needs.
If you’ve got nowhere to feel safe you spend all your time looking for somewhere to feel safe. And some people spend their entire lives searching for safety.
I’m grateful for this innate skill or energy that I possess. And I’m thankful for the intense degree of compassion that exudes from me.
Happy to be of service. Happy to be the emotional paramedic.
She performs CPR on the masses
using compassion as a defibrillator,
and her ears and heart as the paddles.
They are drawn to the love and light within:
she couldn’t hide it if she tried.
The run off tends to suffocate
if she doesn’t disconnect
from every request and admission though.
Most people are festering with loss and regret and fear
so she’s careful not to take on the trauma as her own.
Because who has it in them to resuscitate her?
Not many.
If she keeps her heart safe,
she will be OK.
And though the night shifts are the worst,
The pay speaks beyond any monetary means.
To help and to be of service:
These are the reasons she was born.
And these are the reasons she will keep on being
an emotional paramedic.
Andrea Scoretz is a freelance writer, blogger, ghostwriter and poet from Vancouver Island BC.
She will happily write a blog post or edit content in exchange for a testimonial if you head over to her freelance writing website Andrea S Writes.
A thought came to me quite abruptly the other day: There is progress in the waiting.
I love that thought.
We spend an inordinate amount of time waiting for something better to happen.
For someone to call or email or text. For the weekend to arrive.
And then we totally miss out on the progress we are making while we wait.
We are so distracted by the what if‘ that we don’t see the what is.
So focused on that stuff, we aren’t seeing this stuff.
As in the right now.
Amazing stuff happens in the waiting room of life.
Here’s a new poem inspired by the act of waiting:
I am an accomplished wait-er…
but not the kind that delivers dinner and drinks.
I’m the kind that holds out for alchemy.
There is more to all of this
than the ‘that’ which we seek.
So I accept the wait
because I know on the other end of it
is grace.
The waiting is a friend
when my mind is the enemy.
And the gift of time allows me to prepare
for what magic might soon surface
if I keep standing by.
There is progress in the waiting.
Andrea Scoretz is a freelance writer, blogger, ghostwriter and poet from Vancouver Island BC. She will happily write a guest blog post or edit content in exchange for a testimonial if you head over to her freelance writing website Andrea S Writes.