As I Age, I Finally See

Welcome back, poetry people!

This week, we will be diving into the schism that tends to form when you are neuro-divergent living in a world built for neuro-typical people. I was diagnosed fairly early, even if we ignore the fact I am autistic, which was hidden from me; I found out I am ADHD around the age of six. I was never given much of the usual support for that, either. The constant refrain at my house was, “You are too smart for X,” or “You are just using a selective memory; if you wanted to, you would have remembered.”

Even though many of the things I was forgetting were very much hurting me, too, and I’m not referring to trauma-related situations. I am referring to homework, eating, and outings with my friends. Or places my family had plans to go that I would be left behind because I forgot and so didn’t get my chores done early enough. Of course, after this happening constantly my entire life and being told I deserve to be punished and left behind has turned into a trauma trigger. Being gas-lighted and treated like an afterthought in my own family (except when all eyes were on me, of course, my mother was all about appearances) tends to have that effect.

Am I me, or am I who they project me to be?

As a child, I had a tendency to read books about orphans, and not ones who found rich, happy families, ones that ran away, built their own homes, and found their own families, usually in the woods. From stories like Mandy by Julie Andrews and The Giver by Lois Lowry, I leaped on Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, Cornelia Funke’s Inkheart, Gregory Maguire’s Wicked, and other tales of different and misunderstood people.

Besides Romance novels, I was banned from reading magic and fairy books, but there were a lot of things that didn’t technically qualify. Tiny worlds like The Borrowers by Mary Norton hooked me, worlds where animals were the main characters or were at least a part of the main cast. Richard Adams’ Watership Down and the Dr. Doolittle series by Hugh Lofting were a couple of favorites. Dreamlike and intoxicating. Giving me a window into the inner world I had cut myself off from out of fear and blind survival instinct.

No matter how much I know logically that I am related to the members of my immediate family I have always felt, not related. I have always felt like I was an alien, or a fairy, or a changeling, switched at birth. Or, more specifically, at around one and a half years of age. My mother talked a lot about how I was born with a full head of black hair, with blue eyes, etc. But at around a year and a half, my hair fell out and grew back blondish, which has darkened over time. My eyes darkened to brown, and I suddenly didn’t look like a “baby they had kidnapped from the hospital” anymore. Supposedly a real thing my mother was accused of at a grocery store. It's not a phrase that has ever made me feel more comfortable, to be honest.

I know it isn’t reasonable to believe I am a kidnapped child who was raised by the wrong family. I look like other members of my family, and I have a whole host of rare health conditions that match my family history. That doesn’t change this ingrained feeling I have had my entire life. The fact that people frequently made jokes at my and my brother's expense, telling one or the other of us we might be adopted because X just watered that secret fear.

Forever Changed; Untaken

When I discovered as an adult, this is a feeling shared by Neurodivergent people worldwide. Not only that, mythology and fairy tales about “changelings” and other cultural stories of replaced children from across the world and history are now being seen by some as an explanation by people in the past for Autistic or other disabled children being born into families. (I don’t think of this as a good thing necessarily, just a thing that is) This was another a-ha moment. I had already written dozens of poems on this theme; it gave me chills.

I wanted this piece to feel somewhat disjointed, like a cloud of fog. I enjoy the formatting process; it’s relaxing. Seeing the shape of the poem and making it appear and fit is always such a joy when it looks right at the end.

Forever Changed; Untaken

I am but a shimmering
bit of green fog
forced inside the skin of
a screaming child
inhabiting misery incarnate

only allowed out
in the dark cold of night
when jaws distend far enough
for me to escape
with the blood-curdling screams
that go unanswered

I run and frolic amongst
the stars and meadows
with the other fae folk
until our hosts regain consciousness
renewing our imprisonment
uncertain of the next
conference of the changelings

seeing but not speaking
running but not playing
fighting back
never hoping for a win

resistance may be futile
in the face of overwhelming force
you failed to consider
one key aspect

I will outlive
your deteriorating bones
fly away
from your corpse
screaming to the heavens
in triumph for
sweet, airy freedom

Changeling Day (CW discussion of child abuse, including mention of suicide)

I feel exceptionally disconnected because I have forgotten over and over. As if I was swapped out several times, the secrets of the last poppet’s life whispered in my ear. I attempted Suicide at the Age of six, something I will get into deeper in a separate newsletter, but when that failed and no help came in any form, I had to try something different.

I devised the strategy of trading more work, hoping it would end what was happening at night that I knew was hurting me but couldn’t specifically identify or vocalize. My grandfather worked nights as a janitor at a medical facility, so I started working Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights with him since I stayed those nights with them, and those were just the school weeks. I worked a lot more over those summers. From age 6-11, I worked myself until I passed out every shift; the deal was I got to sleep with my grandmother alone in the bed when we came home from work. That part of the deal was technically upheld--

I wrote this piece early in my resurgence. I hadn’t regained many of my memories. I hadn’t remembered the suicide attempt for what it was; my mother speaks of it often, but with the veneer of a traumatizing accident over it to keep me in control. There was no need to talk about it when she was constantly doing so. And my mind didn’t want to bring it up; she was constantly checking to ensure that.

As I do with many of my poems, I leaned heavily into the use of emphasis typography. I like using Bold and Italics to give the reader a sense of how I read the piece and where the stress and importance should be placed.

Changeling Day

At the age of six, I was traded away.
The memory taken of that day.
Already highly capable of cooking and cleaning,
while slowly I learned how to play.
Every day a new task,
some new way for me to compensate.
The cosmic bill I had no way of seeing 
or ever hoping to clear one day.
Finally, I looked in the mirror and saw,
looking back at me, the real fey.
So I ran away changeling day.
I wouldn’t slave for captors in any conceivable way.
Even if the girl they bought is gone,
I will fly, escape their bonds.
Shed the skin I’ve worn in her stead.
The woods are dark and new,
but I will forge the straight away.
I’ll not go back or even contemplate 
returning to life before changeling day. 
I found a lightning-hollow tree,
made a bed of dead dried leaves.
For the first time,
I could breathe, and hear, and feel, and see.
Living on acorn bread and pinecone jam.
Choosing how to spend my days
foraging, dancing, tidying my space.
Integrating into my forest permanently.
Never to be seen by human eyes again.

Becoming The Banshee

Now that I have gotten back so many memories, I can remember so much of my mother’s bullying and controlling behavior for what it is. I remember begging her not to make me go there and being told I had to, that “it was my job.” I can now see her abusive behavior towards the entire family, especially my father, not to mention the whole friend group that she rules with an iron fist, regularly ostracising any “friends” who step out of line.

I know that eventually, I will be in the same place at the same time as her. I have a lot of trouble with overwhelming emotional situations. I have two involuntary ways of dealing with it; I either numb up entirely going into an autistic shutdown. Or I explode in a frantic sobbing meltdown, mostly unable to speak, devolving from complete sentences to single words to confused and terrified screaming cries. I am obviously terrified of either outcome.

I will not become so terrified I refuse to live. This poem is an acknowledgment of the fact that in going about my business and daily life, I will eventually come across them, and the results may be explosive. I hope that expressing as much as I can through writing will make it easier and less intense when this does occur.

It's the method I've used recently to de-sensitize myself and to be able to speak about emotionally painful and overwhelming subjects. When my late sister-in-law was diagnosed with cancer, I wrote it over and over again to hear myself saying it in my head, and then I said it to myself quietly out loud what must have been thousands of times until I could say it without sobbing. Then, I could speak about it to my husband out loud, and eventually, I could talk about it to other people in a very clinical, fact-based way. I hope this method can work with other topics, such as the memories I have been regaining; only time will tell.

Becoming The Banshee

I know one day
it will occur
I’ll come across
your wicked name
your face will appear
in a public place
without fear

In an instant
I’ll be transformed
air inhaled deep and full
a shriek wailed out
an ear-splitting trill
blowing wind across the hall
knocking all off their course

Onlookers will call out
shaking impotent fists
in rage at the destruction
while I rise above
on wings of soot and
disgrace
all lies sucked from your
dropped open jaws as
I scream In accusation
and abject disgust

Floating above tousled heads
the only sounds left are
unholy screeching blights
the cringing shock on
guilt-stricken faces
the only proof I
will ever collect
so I soak in my win
this single-champion prize fight

While the gale whips up
all around
I continue to elevate
above the ground
debris and lights flashing
smashing onlookers
as the conflagration occurs
simultaneously on full display
without anyone taking note
a smoldering plasmic orb
of rage and regret
raining radioactive ash and
fear down on your
flickering soul
I watch you melt into
the now tainted soil

The Holdra

When a trauma flashback triggers a meltdown, it’s very much like swimming through a vast dark ocean, which is why I have so many mermaid-themed poems or wandering through a foggy forest. The extreme pressure that slowly, almost imperceptibly builds eventually causes my heart to race, lights to flash in my eyes, and I am painfully overwhelmed by every sensory stimulus. Finally, the bubble bursts and the waves of remembrance start to wash over me. Or the memories wallow out like ghosts from behind every tree as I run faster and faster, tripping and falling down an endless hole.

This poem is a trip with me on one of those melt and shutdowns. I structured the poem to look and feel like being drawn down a path that winds through a forest of memories and words. If you are on your own healing journey, you know that many people would rather see it end for whatever reason. I am here to tell you that it’s worth the temporary distress. Freeing the pain and making it to a place where I'm not ruled by the fear of remembering or knowing and becoming stronger than the past that beat me down is an accomplishment. Finally, seeing the light inside of myself is more than worth having to acknowledge and wade through all the darkness.

If you have buried trauma, you are already in pain. It may feel more like an itch if it is still buried deep beneath the surface, but it is festering, and sooner or later, it will come to a throbbing head if you don’t do something about it. It is better to take control and let the poison out on your own terms in a safe, controlled environment than leave yourself open to the risk of it rising up and breaking open against your will or timetable.

The Holdra

Footsteps in the moss
I trod upon logs fallen in
rivers of mud and slash through
gossamer spun webs
of giant spiders
slung across fanning
foliage walls
like crossing stops
long abandoned
and left to rot
I keep up my trek
till I reach a glowing
font of primal energy
somehow exiting
my being
instead of
entering my thoughts
the constant flow
of growing vitality
bursts every cell
instantly evaporating
bark and root
leaf and loam
replace skin blood
hair and bone
equal mass
redistribute
eventually
I hear the call
folks on the trail
they find the hall
a clearing filled
with arcane air
a single tree
they cannot bear
the sensations frighten
those unaware
reflexively they lash out
slashing blindly
they meet me
seeing what they
came hunting
unable now
to take any more
I may be anchored
here in my glade
but even
the stabs of
well oiled a blade
shall not prevail
for I am hollow
but not dead
I am a holdra
protector of life
the saplings
the flora
and all who
seek refuge and
lie weeping
under my shade

Deeply Rooted

Although while engaging in writing therapy, many of the memories I have recovered have been ravagingly painful that isn’t why I’m doing it, though that seems to be what some people think. I am not simply dredging up the past to cause trouble for myself and others. It's as if I am living through these events and dealing with them for the first time.

My brain buried and hid these happenings so well the first time to keep me from breaking under the pressure that even if I could tell something was wrong under the surface, definitely after the age of six, I couldn’t specifically say what that was until I was 15, and even then I could only say in a general sense. I only got one or two hazy memories back at that time before my mind brought the protective shield right back up.

I am not claiming it’s easy; I feel totally broken down for part of nearly every day. But I felt broken all day, every day when I first started this leg of the journey in December of 2022, and I wasn't even me before. I wasn’t sure I would even be able to make it. I have said it before, and I will keep saying it. Art therapy saved my life—music, writing, and eventually getting back to dancing.

I, me, Bailey, was buried so deep inside the layers of protection I'd built up that I was skeptical there was anyone real inside. I am still looking for and building up the person I want to be. Before all of this, I was a facade painted to resemble what people expected me to look like, cracked and put together thousands of times, pasted over wrappings and padding to protect what I thought was just a cavernous, empty space with all the fear and pain echoing around inside.

The combination of trauma responses and masking my autistic traits left the real me completely underdeveloped. Indeed, I was wrong. It was protecting a precious seed. It is taking a lot of TLC to get that little seedling planted, watered, and grown back into something that can stand without support. One planted on the top of a mountain I have spent ages climbing. Now, I am just waiting to see what grows.

Deeply Rooted

Forced to swallow myself
Everything that makes
Me, me
I drank in the sorrow
Guzzled it like spring rain
I swallowed every bit of pride
Dignity maintained
Every memory and agony
I shoved them deep where
No one could find or see
Deep into the soil comprising me
No one but the creator
Could possibly see they
Were tiny green seeds
Germinating
Growing in my deepest recesses
I hid my precious garden
Inside so it couldn’t
Be stomped out
Stolen flowers and
Delicate berries
A jungle slowly ripening
As I walked around
With a neutral face

Running away into
The light of day
Molting my protective coat
Letting my wild flora out
I saw the truth in the
Perfection of that green
I waited for the creative
Forces to percolate
Inside of me
There is a spark
A cloud of magic that
We all reside inside
I sucked it in
Simply recycled it
Tapped into its fertility
The freedom of growing
Deep roots and a tall canopy
Are immeasurable
Disappearing in the
Forest of eternity

This has been a rather emotional newsletter for me, but also a cathartic one. I hope this either informed or resonated with you in some small way. I will be including an essay this week that discusses autistic meltdowns in greater detail and includes an additional poem as an intro.

If you haven’t checked out my Patreon, I have that setup and am growing the collection of audio files I have over there. I will start putting up the poems I included in previous newsletters I sent on Substack since I can’t put up 20-minute videos.

Until Next week,

K.B. Silver

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