There is something sensual about steam
rising from a cup of black coffee. The color
of my mood today or let’s just say somber.
Yesterday was the first day of the new year.
Too bad. It didn’t go well. Not by my design.
I thought I’d journal about last week’s EMDR
revelations into last year’s journal so I could
leave them there and not bring them forward.
Not so. As I recounted the results of the previous
session, the film in my head didn’t stop there.
New ground. New player. New abuse revealed
from when I was eight or ten. Doesn’t matter.
It was so shocking to me, I couldn’t leave it
there; I had to put it on the first fresh white
virgin page of the new year. I stained it with
the new blood of abuse until now unknown,
unrevealed, unprocessed. Hard to believe;
hard to imagine. Blindsided by surprise pain
on the first day of the new year. Journal ruined
from the get go. I felt ruined. Violated by a loved
one and the sickness of abuse in another form.
Black coffee is penance for what? I didn’t want
this; I didn’t do anything to deserve abuse. No
one deserves abuse; especially a child who is
powerless over abuse. I couldn’t drink another
sip of what I thought was going to be part of the
new me this year. Folly, pure folly on my part.
The coffee maker had turned off. I poured what
was left into my mug, just rinsed. The dark
residue in the cup matched the residue in
my soul. I nuked it for thirty seconds. Added
three sugars and half-and-half to the top and
returned here to bring this to a close.
It looks like this is my start for the new year.
Odds and ends of my mind, heart, and soul
spilling over here. Pain has to go somewhere.
It has to get out. Even joy has to go somewhere.
For me, EMDR is the somehow, so healing and
restoration can triumph in the new year.
So God will be triumphant in me this new year.
No matter what has come before. No matter what
is to come. I get to live another triumphant year.
Espresso black, of course. Coffee or tea, milky
and sweet was me, is me, will be me. God will
bless me no matter how I take coffee or tea;
regardless of the slings and arrows of abuse.
Poet, Writer, US Army (Retired)
I dreamed of writing when I was a youngster. The love of books and writing may have helped to dull the pain of severe sexual abuse as I was sexually abused by two men at my father’s place of work from age 8 to 12 or so. I learned about this for the first time when I was 50 years old. So, as a boy, reading was the only place I had to go to. My fantasy world was better and safer than my real world. I loved reading and writing.
Reading books and writing poetry are a joy to me still and are an important part of my life. (See my About Me page on my blog for the complete profile.)