April 2, 1982
Nope, that’s not a typo. I was 18 years old then. At the time, I was taking night classes to get my high school diploma. I wasn’t a bad kid, but in the middle of a life filled with some bad circumstances.
My friends say they remember seeing a for sale sign in the front yard of our house, and the next thing they knew, I was gone. What I remember, hmmm, I wish it was that quick and easy.
I will elaborate at a later date but the matter of facts are:
My parents filed for divorce. My Dad moved to Detroit, MI. My Mom moved to Indianapolis, IN. My sisters were away at college. I wanted to finish out my Senior year, obviously at my current high school as we had lived there 10yrs. There, was a suburb of Buffalo, NY. So, I tried living with a friend to finish out my senior year but there were 2 major problems.
1. She had 2 crazy mean Siamese Cats...ok a problem, but not enough to not live there, just creep me out.
2. Her mother was an alcoholic. That was a problem. I couldn’t take anymore of anything.
I was fragile and just trying to survive. So that December I joined my mother in Indiana. I could not face going to a regular high school so I went to Night School. I would get the 3 Indiana credits I needed just to get a High School Diploma. Wow, had my life changed. As you can imagine, the classroom looked like a jigsaw puzzle where none of pieces came from the same box. Somehow, they eventually fit together and the puzzle spelled DIPLOMA.
On April 2, 1982, during that time, I sat and wrote three poems….one right after the other. I was sitting on the floor, between two twin beds, my back supported by the matching brown nightstand. I was in my Mother’s apartment. I guess mine too, but feeling like I belonged anywhere was difficult. I’m still not sure how these words flowed so easily from me? How they were making so much sense? I wasn’t scratching out and rewriting much of anything. My only guess, it was a cleansing of my feelings from the past 4 years. That’s when my parents began to have marital problems.
When I reread these now, I sound like I had lived a lifetime. I was only 18 yrs old. But it also was the beginning of understanding how writing/journaling helps to heal.
Here is one of those poems.
In Your Hands Reach
We all start off so carefree, happy and full of life.
As we travel down the road, somewhere, sometime, part of that life disappears.
We’re not sure where or when it goes, but for the rest of our lives we seem to always be searching to gain it back.
We don’t know quite what it is we lost, but we know it’s out there somewhere. It may be that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, Or maybe that lucky star far above.
It’s there, but time goes by so quickly.
We worry that our lives will be unfulfilled while we carry around the unexplainable emptiness.
Take one step back.
Search deep in yourself.
There is something there that is in your hand’s reach.
A satisfaction that has always been there.
We have just been in such a hurry looking for something much more complicated.
Your heart is that pot of gold.
By: Amy Herring(maiden)