To My Many Selves

14900586_10157583064810537_941500251891858667_n14695540_10157583065410537_7775490491269943192_n 14910385_10157583065705537_1390907862960225791_n14611003_10157583066145537_1230809870674769106_n

To my-selves,
I want to love you.
I want to heal all the tender
hurting parts.

I want you to know how smart
and funny you are,
and how it’s immeasurably okay
that you take up space.

I want you to know
how cool I think it is that at eight
you could skateboard with
all the neighborhood boys
even if they got you in trouble
for playing with fire
(something that kept happening
for your whole adult life).
You kept up,
got scraped up,
and weren’t ever afraid
to be different.

I want to hold nine-year-old you
And tell you how it’s okay
you stole the candy from your classmates on Valentine’s day
because the love your mother gave
was never quite enough
to make you feel loved.
So you acted up, desperate,
grasping for more,
however you could get it.
I see you. I know you.
I forgive you. I love you.

I want ten-year-old you to know
that I understand how small you felt,
how weak and invisible.
So you sought out horses
and grew strong,
brushing their manes,
riding far, and fast,
and away.
Your jewelry boxes
filled with horse hair
and clippings from hooves,
that you held when afraid,
to be whisked on memory once again,
I want to ride with you,
laughing and screaming all the way.

To eleven,
alone, family
Scared. Under beds. Sleepwalking.
I want to hold you, and keep you safe.
Their words and their shouting
aren’t your fault. And I know how much
you just want them to love each other
and you.
And how this is when your mother’s pain became a burden
you started learning
you were to carry.

This was the year your childhood ended.

I want you to know I understand
you’re with me now, on birthdays, holidays, and vacations.
How I see you coming through when I cry at beauty; See puppies, and kitties.
And I’m so glad I can give you these gifts.
Mom forgot how to eat and so,
then, did you.
An emptiness grew that was in part of, but caused by more
than just a lack of food.

And to every self after, I know you too.
How you hide and pretend
you’re not here, because to be
might mean you’re also available
to be victim to more darkness, pain, fear, and abuse.
And how each of you kept shrinking,
each one of you desperately hurt, splintered, and buried.
I’m seeking you now.
I’m calling you home.
I’ve remembered my sovereignty.
I’m reclaiming OUR truth.
That each of you deserved more.

To each one of you:
I feel you,
I’m safe now,
I forgive you,
I love you.
I’ve lit all the lanterns,
rekindled the fires.
I’ve prepared all the beds,
and replanted all the flowers.

I’m here now. I’m waiting for your return.
You’re welcome, when you’re ready,
to come HOME.

Avatar photo

About the Author | Angel Marie Russell

Angel Marie Russell is a mental health advocate, writer, musician and artist devoted to sharing her experience with PTSD as a survivor of domestic violence and child abuse through, writing, music and art. She is the writer and creator of Sergeant Sparrow; a music, art, and literary blog, Lost Ghost; a poetry and writing blog and creator of the Facebook page and Instagram; PTSD survivors of Domestic Violence and Child Abuse.

Leave a Reply

0 comments to "To My Many Selves"