Operation Pied Piper, Mixed Feelings, & Lack of Poetic Voice

On a glum Saturday in summer of 1938, with the threat of rain tinting the clouds a ghostly gray and the people of England coating their windows in scarlet sheets in hopes of catching some of the flooding, word came in that the German air raids would be back. In 1939, London’s City Council began making requests for buses and trains. The plan was to evacuate all of the British children to open homes in the countryside to evacuate the blitzkrieg — massive warfare. September 1, 1939, Germany invaded Poland, marking the beginning of history’s second world war. While the German planes were opening fire on the dark, small homes of England, hundreds of thousands of British children were boarding trains, bidding farewell to their mothers, and curling up on the hard seats of the trains, leather-bound books in hand, praying that they would return to their families. The children were marked with little white cards, and around their necks, a tiny cardboard box containing a gas mask. It’s been written that the brothers and sisters clung to each other while in line, hand in hand, “like grim death, refusing to be parted.” Think Chronicles of Narnia; the Lion, the Witch & the Wardrobe. That’s what was going on here. This massive evacuation of more than 3.5 million children–the largest in history to date– ultimately turned out to be somewhat a false alarm; the threat of German air raids had subsided in the few years after the children’s traumatic separation from their parents, and they were ordered to return.
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If you’re wondering why I’m giving a historical lecture on this blog, well, I’m not really sure either. This is one of the most fascinating pieces of history to me, and one that I like to reference in some of my poems. Something about the urgency of it all, the way those poor children had to pack their lives in a brown box and flee their home in an instant gives me chills. That, and Narnia is one of my favorite movies of all time.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about poetic voices — the unique tone a writer incorporates in his/her writing to give it an extra flair, a tint of familiarity. I don’t know what my writer’s tone is yet. Maybe I already have one. I know that I tend to overuse words like “melancholy” (it rings in my head. Beauty in a word) and “baby’s-breath” (not that pretty of a plant, but the most beautiful phrase I’ve ever heard, and I can also thank Nirvana for that), and oceans (don’t hate me for this, I know it’s riddled with cliches). I’ve been so overwhelmed with catching up on the tons (tons) of schoolwork I’ve missed and packing my things up for this Florida move in June, I haven’t had time to collect my thoughts enough to write a coherent poem. My journal lately has been a nearly-indecipherable ramble of out-of-place words and half-poems. I don’t know how to turn my feelings into something that will make sense on paper. I’ve never had this problem before, and it’s scary to me.
I’m constantly worrying that one day I will suddenly lose this innate ability I seem to have to dictate language in a way that sings. An old English teacher once told my dad that I seem to have complete control over the English language in a way that’s fascinating to her. That’s one of the best compliments I’ve received.

So I don’t know. I’m all caught up in regrets and hazy memories with no place to store it. I’ve been writing a short story lately, nearly ten thousand words in. I’m quite proud of it. That’s the only writing accomplishment I have to say for myself lately.
Tell me your thoughts.

Hold My Hand and Walk Back Through Time: Growing Up with BPD

“Someday, the nostalgia will fade and we will learn that it is merely gravity making us frown.” ~d.s.h.

I have never been an aggressive person. Even as a child in class I was afraid to ask someone for a pencil or speak up in class when a peer made an offhand comment to me for fear of drawing attention to myself, of being called dramatic and “tattle-tale.” Regarding my elementary school, my peers and I were part of this international baccalaureate program in which we were rewarded for demonstrating skills such as empathy, or getting a top grade on our reading comprehension tests. We were considered the “gifted” kids. Fifth grade came around, and with my mousy black hair and wide, anxious eyes, I auditioned for the winter school musical. I’m not even sure I was all that good at singing, but I got the part for solo. I find this very strange looking back on it. Presently, I would never think about performing in front of a giant crowd like I once did — I admire child-me’s bravery.

I had always been a nervous, highly sensitive child. At age seven I started this compulsive habit of ripping out my hair and picking off skin from the area around my fingernails (I still have the finger-picking habit today). No one understood why I did this and I didn’t either. It felt like it was something I had to do, and while I was doing it, I’d go into this trance-like state where I wasn’t entirely aware of my surroundings. At that age I also found anger quite a difficult emotion for me to articulate. I could get intensely jealous over small things, and this led to a lot of fights with my friends back then. I wasn’t capable of introspection at ten years old. When my family upset me I released the growing tension inside of me, the electrical storm brewing in my chest, by bending my fingers back as far as they’d go. I did this because the pain relieved the anger. except my family didn’t know that — they thought it was funny and often mocked me. At the time I didn’t know what self-harm even was. It was just something I did. When I got older, this coping mechanism evolved from finger-bending to cutting my thighs, burning my arms, and punching things.

As I grew into adolescence, my emotions became increasingly volatile. I remember feeling like a dull, hollow shell of a child, entirely at the mercy of my environment. I could flip from one emotion and to another and then back again at the drop of a hat. It was frightening both to me and my family.

Shame, shame, shame. January of this year I was reevaluated by psychiatrists (the first time I received two diagnoses of MDD and social phobia) and diagnosed with type II bipolar disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, and borderline personality disorder. I did not begin taking medicine until the end of March when I spent eight days in a psychiatric facility. I remember being waken up at six am in the soft blue light of dawn to have my blood taken; as I was sitting on the chair outside my nurse’s office, groggy and annoyed, a middle-aged blonde woman approached me and said, “Oh, sorry to interrupt, but I’ve been watching you just from over there. You’re very beautiful. You could be a model! What’s a pretty little girl like you doing in a place like this?” I didn’t know what to say. What was I doing in there? There’s a lot of answers. The most obvious one, I had overdosed on pills. The second answer, I had lost control of my emotions. Third, I wanted to start over. There’s a whole lot of excuses.

In the hospital I was prescribed 10mg Lexapro and 100mg Seroquel. I was advised to take it at night due to how sleepy the medication makes me. So far, my moods are still a tempest, only slightly more dampened down. Now I don’t have mania to sweep me off my feet and turn my thoughts into a cyclone, and I’m not particularly depressed, but I still spiral into a suicidal spiral when my borderline triggers act up. I’m in therapy twice a week. It’s a work in progress, but I know anything is possible.

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