My Years as a Ghost
I lost myself after my second child.
I grew my hair long and hid.
I wore my clothes long,
and my face was long and lost
in folds of hair and cloth.
I was a whisper. A ghost
sweeping in silent pain. Transparent.
People saw right through me
when I came out of it, when I turned
all the colors and wore them in my skin
my neighbor introduced herself to me.
Three years we had chatted
by our joined fence and she asked,
“Are you a friend of Shawna’s?”
She did not know me.
It was funny. I had just met myself.
Photo by Steinar Engeland on Unsplash
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I'd love to say beautiful, but in truth, there isn't anything beautiful about feeling like this. Last year I lost someone important for me too and this poem really resonates with me.
It curious how they are the ones who left this realm but we are the ones who somehow adopt the role of ghosts. In all honesty, there isn't much that I remember from the last year; even when every day was slow and every situation was hard to swallow, I look back now and I only see a blurred collection of moments. Like an echo of a story that happened to someone else. At times, there wasn't even pain anymore, just nothing. And that was worst!
However, what it is indeed amazing is the way you portraited it. Deep and touching. Thank you.
Grief can bend us in unexpected ways. It twists until we flatten and disappear. It seems like a protection at the time, but we later realize it was because it was too hard to stay. To feel.
It sounds like you have come or are coming out that mental space. I hope you are feeling better. I think, from this piece, you can know you are not alone in that between, echo-ey feeling.
I am very grateful for this connection and comment. Thank you for being here.
I liked this very much. It expresses what so many women go through. I did. I look forward to seeing more from you. A question: Can you tell me about the steemit animation at the bottom of your post? I've seen it on a couple of people's posts. Is it OK to copy and use it? Do I need someone's permission? Thanks.
I love it. I'm glad @jayna resteemed it, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to see it! I love the impact of the last word of each line, especially "lost." It was out of context but totally messed with me. Thanks for sharing, despite what inspired it.
awww very nice poetry thank you
With love,
harj : ) xoxo
Abstract artist
(My latest artwork is "Government")
<3
Thank you! shawnamawna great to get your interpretation on my last art post called "Government" your insight would help us : )
With love,
harj : ) xoxo
Abstract artist
(My latest artwork is "Government")
I popped over. Nice work!
Oh, that is beautiful and true.
<3 Thank you so much for reading this.
This poem is a reminder that traumatic experiences and life phases we deal with can be invisible and seem unreal, and even unworthy. We can drag them around with us like a ball and chain and feel there is absolutely nothing to be done about them. We can even un-know ourselves for a time.
I love these lines so much:
"when I came out of it, when I turned
all the colors and wore them in my skin
my neighbor introduced herself to me"
Sometimes it's only after we find a way out of those mired, unhappy, or traumatic times that we look back and see who we were and get a bit of perspective on how hard it was. It really can be like re-introducing yourself to yourself, and to others.
I wrote a post early in my days on Steemit, called "Four funerals and a wedding," because in a very short time a lot of big things were happening all at once. Writing about it helped me to make sense of it all. It was very grounding. I have re-read that post a few times since then. It was only four months ago, and yet it feels like forever, and like I was someone else for a little while.
The image of the woman behind the curtain really resonates with me.
Shawna, is this real? Feels so sad, but does end with some color and a ray of hope. The neighbour's question bears so much witness to how drastic the change must have been.