HANDICAPPED UNREST

© 2009 Howard McQueen

No clue what to do with this taboo of anger

I am looking sick, so leave me alone.
I sense disconnection, this sickness
reaching deep into my bones.

So many questions, so much advice
I vacillate from ambivalence to a nightmarish fright
Pretty pissed off
shouldering these feelings of helplessness and despair.
The shame, collapsed anger, the big taboo.
I project victims: Pick one you like, something that pleases you.
I’ve been so identified with
the health and vitality of my life.
Must a’ done something really wrong
to trigger this health crisis identity coming on so strong.
My fault or someone else’s, who turned the trick?
So much energy assigned to the either/or of blame.

The young hawk, grounded, can no longer hunt
Stoic / not stoic, I constantly shift polarities,
trying to offer my best in my handicapped unrest.

~ ~ ~
I forwarded this poem to a friend. Here was her response

Delighted that you should write ... with so many other distractions in a busy, full (apparently) life. Young hawk, grounded .. that sure resonates. Not sure I feel anger regarding my prediciment ... probably more resignation in living the struggle for so many years. Rage somewhere not far beneath the surface ... but undistingusihable ... unwilling to reveal it's identity ... tho i often just wait in the struggle attempting to have it identify itself. (And as I reread this I realize I'm addressing more the almost life long emotional struggle rather than the more recent physical challenge)

Spent most of the day in considerable struggle/pain ... mostly i believe because i made the decision to visit Seattle.. .. which adventure, in anticipation, creates a knot in my sternum and constricts me mightlily in many ways. A pill will make it go away ... but I'm attempting to dance with this here demon . I find myself saying I love you ... attempting, I believe, to connect with this mysterious other that cohabitates this body with me. I mouth the words .. even verbalize them ... but can't feel the feelings. Yet I know the love of which I speak. It's my nurturing arms around the shivering young one who was chilled to the bone ... an incident which I'm sure I shared with you. Puzzled/frustrated that I can't seem to connect the dots. I know what nurturing is/feels like, I can BE nurturing. and frequently am ... but it is so elusive having me FEEL love/nurtured/safe ... Resonate with you??

I was challenged in reading your poem to know, as it went along, whose voice was articulating ... yours, or the [experiencer] ... as I sensed a shift in several places. seems worthy to consider a cup of tea over which to ruminate on this, and other topics.

~ ... ~~~