Death, divorce, desertion, depression,
name your disaster and I’ve had it.
Childhood abuse led to adulthood abuse,
and a widening chasm in my first marriage
became the demilitarized zone
that began with the death of a baby.
Depression spiraled year upon year,
further and further down until
hitting rock bottom would have been a relief.
Near suicide after the discovery of a cheating spouse
was averted by the almost unbearably sweet intervention
of my chubby toddler child, cuddling close, patting my cheek
and crooning “No sad, mama, no sad.”
Through it all, one disaster, one heartache,
one agonizing pain after another,
one thing held true, one thing sustained me.
Writing saved me, pulled me up and out of myself,
purged the sickness that plagued my soul,
and quenched the flames that ultimately annealed my character.
I came through more flexible and strong, more open and ready
for the advent of real love. Had I not suffered, not bled, not written
through it all, I would not have the strength, the love, I have now.