How Poetry Saved My Life

As a young girl, I was taught by example to never mix peas with my issues. It didn’t matter if my trauma was as thick as mashed potatoes and dark as gravy; I was either too scared of playing with the idea of speaking up or my juvenile tongue was held before I could wash off my plate.

(8 Reasons Why Poetry Is Good for the Soul.)

The anxiety and hyperawareness followed me in school. I was called harebrained by a few of my teachers, mostly because they had very little information about why I was making trivial mistakes, not asking for help when needed, hiding in washrooms, and leaving unannounced between periods. I did not have the essentials for coping in day-to-day life; I only had a knack for responding ingeniously to distressing experiences.

In adulthood, I became severely depressed and contemplated the value of my life. I barely ate and spent months at a time hiding away and giving my undivided attention to my anxiety and panic attacks. However, life was catching up on me. I needed to figure out if I wanted to further my education and how I could make a living.

My physician referred me to a psychotherapist who had a successful track record with women’s issues and childhood trauma. I can remember the first appointment like it was yesterday. She asked me to fill out a chart that rated my emotions on a scale of one to ten accompanied by questions that focused on how certain scenarios made me feel. I stared at the page with tears in my eyes from defeat wondering if I could even get past this first step. The same silence bled into my session, which encouraged my therapist to provide me with a list of activities that could help dislodge my subconscious. One of those listed was poetry.

On my way home, I was scrolling through Instagram. I came across “In this short life that only lasts an hour,” by Emily Dickinson. It was the first time where I really felt the presence of fate. The poem’s purpose made me realize that sometimes only two sentences is all I have control of when it comes to my mental health, and that’s okay. I either have the choice to befriend it or not in order to heal. It also made me feel less lonely thinking about the generations of people who read that poem and experienced the same awakening. It may not feel like those individuals exist, but they do, and sometimes finding them constitutes a lot of patience.

It gave me a hunger that I never felt before. I spent hours researching the art of poetry, as well as other poets who have written about their mental health, like Sylvia Plath.

This prompted me to write “My Twin, The Foe,” a poem that represents me taking back the power my panic attacks had, and acknowledging that they do not define who I truly am as a person. They are an extension of my being, like a twin, and respectfully should be individualized.

When I read it to my therapist, I could finally feel that little girl peacefully putting her dirty dishes into a sink for others to help clean. I knew at that moment I didn’t need to cook and tidy up all on my own.

I decided to submit the poem, without any expectation. A few weeks later, I received confirmation that it would be published by the League of Canadian Poets. It was not only a win that felt long overdue, but I couldn’t believe that my past woes were deserving of being heard. The community of poets on social media overwhelmed me with beautiful responses and notes of relation. It was the start of something beyond my wildest imagination.

They say actions speak louder than words, but I tend to disagree.