Author’s note: This is the poem I used for my Portrait of Me presentation. This is also a poem that I wrote and posted on my personal blog at the beginning of July following a very rough period of time in which I realized that I had no idea who I am without the characters I play. This happened after One Act ended, and I think was partially amplified because I hadn’t let myself ‘mourn’ the loss of Frankenstein yet. As strange as it sounds, the characters that I play are integral parts of me and so when a show is over, I feel like I have lost that part of myself and must let myself heal from that loss.
What was different about this time, however, was that Frankenstein truly was me. She lived in me, she breathed in me, she spoke in me–it is incredible how important something becomes to you when it has lived inside of you. I woke up to Frankenstein’s voice in my head, I wore things that I knew she would like, I spoke in a way that was unique only to her. I knew her words backwards and forwards, knew the way she walked, the way she cried, the way she was when she got drunk. I knew everything about her and she knew everything about me.
She completed me. And without her, I felt so impossibly, undeniably, awfully empty.
Because, the thing about Frankenstein was that she was obsessive; she slaved away for months and months, trying to create something beautiful–trying to create life! She lived only to be a vessel for her passion, and I am very much the same. Because, in same way that she obsessed over her creation, I obsessed over mine; I was Frankenstein and the play was my monster. Every moment of every day was spent thinking about my role–about how (if?) she loved, how she felt, how she was as a child, the manner in which she spoke–or about the play–what music suited it and what music didn’t, costuming, lines, memorization, character work, relationships–all of it, everything, was devoted to that play.
Everything inside of me was given to that play.
And I think that was a big part of the residual problem–that so much of myself was put into that role that when it was over, there really was nothing left. (Commence rapid heart pounding here.) Nothing left in my heart. Nothing left in my head. Nothing left in my soul.
There was nothing left for myself.
I think the loss of Frankenstein, as well as the things that took place in the weeks after it, served to reveal to me a problem that I had been both unaware of and running from, for a very long time. The problem being that I didn’t know who I was along with the fear that finding out would make it worse because what if I didn’t like whatever I found?
There are some things about yourself that you can’t just ‘un-know’. I’ve learned that. And there are some things about yourself that you can’t change. I’ve learned that too.
The poem below, entitle ‘Collateral Damage’ was written at the height of that–at a time when I was on the cusp of knowing and not knowing and at a time where I was terrified to find out. It’s like I have always been waiting for this part of myself that never comes, and in writing this poem, I realized that it never will. And instead, I am left with this other. . .Thing. This Thing inside of me that I have unknowingly been trying to drown for the last seventeen years, and the Thing inside of me that is ultimately more myself than I am.
I think that this poem was my way of trying to make sense of It–the Thing that wanders aimlessly through my being in search of a way out. It was also the most honest I have ever been in my writing, in terms of what my truth is. And even though a simple poem will never be able to fix this Being that is broken inside of me, it made me aware of It’s existence, and of the fact that no amount of running from myself, or hiding from myself in the skins of other people, will make me less. . . me.
Collateral Damage
when i was 11
everyday
when i got home
from school
i would lay down
on my bedroom floor
and close my eyes
trying to remain
as still as possible
so maybe
i could trick my body
into believing
it wasn’t alive anymore.
i’d hold my breath
until i could hear
my heartbeat in my ears
and the old flourish
of my lungs
begging me
breathe breathe breathe
and just when
i was going to do it
my mind always begged
don’t don’t don’t.
i used to stay like that
for hours.
hanging in an in between
of being half
of one thing
and half
of something else
entirely.
i guess i was
half alive
and half dead.
half hoping to die
and half not knowing why.
and when my mother
would find me
laying on the floor
of my bedroom
blue in the face
she would ask me
what i was doing
so i would tell her
i was practising.
practicing? she’d ask
practicing what?
i never did have
the heart
to tell her
i was practicing to die.
there are just
some things
mothers can never
understand.
you see
i keep trying to kill
some distant
part of myself.
something that has been
so suppressed and neglected
that i’ve forgotten
to recognize
its shadowed face
as it wanders aimlessly
through the hallows
of my soul.
every now and then
i feel it
thrashing around
inside of me
desperately trying
to claw it’s way
up my windpipe
and out of my mouth.
cause once it has
torn my insides
to shreds
in its urgency
for escape
i feel the weight of it
sitting on my tongue
trapped in a bastille
of lips and teeth
with it’s haunches
tensed and ready
to spring over
the precipice
of my jaw
should i talk.
i suppose that’s why
i go so quiet
sometimes.
cause if i open
my mouth
to speak
i know it will
come blooming out
of me
like some ancient hurt
that i didn’t realize
i had until
i felt the pain
of it
sluggishly ripping through
the centre of my being.
years of forgetting
to acknowledge it
have made this thing
inside of me
something so
intangibly real.
and now that
i’ve felt it
stirring within me
i don’t know
how much longer
i will be able
to refuse its
existence.
it’s like
when you walk
into a party
and there’s somebody there
you slept with
once
when you were
a little sad
and very drunk.
and you just want
to forget about them
and forget the way
you woke up
next to them
with a hangover
and forget how
you can’t really remember
the details
of your drunken
seduction
cause you were too sad
and too drunk
to do anything but forget.
and you can’t decide
which feels worse.
the drinking
or the sad
or the seduction
or everything all at once.
and when you’re
at this party
trying to forget
that you ever
slept with them
in the first place
you can feel them
staring at you
with every breath
you breathe
cause they didn’t
forget you.
and you do
everything
in your power
to try to avoid them
but suddenly
its like they
are a magnet
for your eyes
and no matter
where you look
your gaze always
falls on them
so you can’t pretend
it never happened anymore
cause the more
you look at them
the more you remember
and the more you remember
the more you want
to forget.
things like how
you can only ever
sleep with people
when you get drunk
or
how dirty
you feel
after waking up
next to that faceless man
who was just
a convenient vessel
for your need
to destroy yourself
i can’t even
look at myself
in the mirror anymore
cause i can’t stand
the sight of the scars
bright and white
that stand up
from the flat terrain
of my skin
like little tombstones
in an old graveyard.
they each represent
some part of me
that got in the way
as i tried to kill
that distant thing
that ambles hollowly
through the mausoleum
of my soul
in search
of a way out.
i guess
this body of mine
really is just the collateral
to a damage
that goes far beyond
being simply skin deep.
i read once
that when a person
is possessed by the devil
the priests
mutilate the body
of the host
cause when the body
gets too weak
the devil can’t
live in it anymore.
maybe that’s where
i got it from.
cause the more
i feel it
moving within me
the more i feel the need
to kill it
and i don’t know why.
i don’t think
it’s evil
though.
it’s more like
some small
lost child
wandering round
in search of its mother
only its mother didn’t
want it
cause it looked
a little different
from the other children
and all it wants now
is to be loved
and nurtured the way
it never was
cause it is more
pure and innocent
than anything else
in this world
it was cursed
to live in.
people are afraid
of things like that
you know.
things too good
and pure
for them to understand.
the messed up thing is
i feel half crazy
most of the time
cause i don’t even know
what it is
i’m trying to kill.
i only know it’s there
and it is more myself
than i am.
Dear Hope,
I have to say with honesty, I’ve never gotten so emotionally attached to a school project until I heard you present. Your “Portrait of Me” presentation extended to the boundaries in which it was confined, and I think that’s what made it so memorable. In your introduction, you talk about the connections within you and Frankenstein, “She completed me. And without her, I felt so impossibly, undeniably, awfully empty.” These sentences were so raw and profoundly insightful that while reading it, you awakened my own monster – the monster of curiosity. One factor I loved in your poem was how you were able to come in a full circle – the topics at the beginning and end were very much related, while in the middle, there was always a underlying relation to the main theme. Your stylistic diction choices such as, “ambles hollowy” or “stirring within me”, evoked strong pathos. In addition, the format of the poem itself is very pleasing. The spaces that you left behind certain words to start a new line matched the tone you produced within that passage, for instance when you are talking about more hurtful topics, the pacing becomes slower and more mellow. When you talk about “heated” topics, the pacing and space placement becomes quicker and fast paced.
To add on personally, a creative touch could have been the manipulation of the stanza placements. Perhaps to move a stanza on the right or center to create more aesthetic unity and visual curiosity.
In addition, I’m just curious as to your reasoning behind the uncapitalized “i”. I know this is something I do a lot within my own writing to produce a softer effect; for capital letters are very jarring and “in-your-face”. Is that also the reasoning behind it in this case?
Smiles,
Judy Gu
Judy,
Thank you so much for your comment and for taking the time to read my blog! To answer your question–yes, the lack of capitals is because I have always had a personal vendetta against them. They make everything look too harsh and sharp and no capitals are so much softer and prettier. I have been using this in my writing probably since grade 10, and very rarely get away with it because Hunni usually penalizes me for it, however poetry is one of the things for which it is excusable.
ILAG,
-hope