Therapy #2

Today was an emergency/required session that I called for last Thursday.

I am still processing and maybe for quite some time what is roiling up from within.

But I did want to provide a small update about myself.

Still cannot write much. I keep stopping and starting as I type and carefully consider what I am going to say. This is not how I write. I watch as the words unfold in front of me not even consciously aware of them, my fingers flow across the keyboard.

This is a week with T.

A candle that I purchased provides you with a message when it melts down. My message: You are worthy of your dreams.

Today’s session was about grounding. And coping without turning to alcohol or drugs. I am happy to admit that I have had no urge. Once I had a small blip that I managed to overcome with a stern talking to. Also I no longer want to self-medicate, I want to be healthy and happy.

I left my session calmer than when I had gone in.

I am exhausted. Physically exhausted, as in I want to have a nap. That though is a no no otherwise I will not sleep tonight.

I know that things are going to get better. I know that I am going to grow into a wonderfully happy woman. I know that I will start to write again.

There are no huge strides to be taken, no hurrying or forcing myself. I am slowing down and taking smaller steps. Steps that lead forward while letting me process all that I can as I can.

Sorry this is more of a list than any actual writing. But I needed to put something down to prove that I could. That writing was still there for me. I have already lost my ability to read I think that I would go right round the proverbial bend if I lost the ability to write.




Within my mind
there resides a voice
it is mine of course.
Every so often it sings its song
and I must listen.
Danger, Danger, Danger
Strength,Strength, Strength
flying at me
swirling around me
making me stumble and fall.
Each of these voices
they are me,
they are mine,
splintered in three.
I wish that they would stop
they would leave me alone
because this new nightmare?
I am not sure
how much more I can take of it.
I am crumbling before you
slowly collapsing into a pile of dust
the fear and venom
bled from my veins.
I will arise
like the phoenix
from the ashes of that girl, that woman
soaring free
taking my place finally
in my own history.
©Jay-lyn Doerksen
 Feb. 1/18


opaque shadows
skitting across my consciousness,
a scene caught from the corner of my mind.
Wondering if what I see,
what I remember
is the truth?
The fear,
the constant refusal of my mind
to acknowledge what I cannot find,
memories of a time long past.
Black holes exist
and the memories I do carry
are stories repeated
until they have become a steady verse.
Over the edge of the abyss I peer
seeking comfort
seeking the bottom where one cannot exist
holding onto the hope
that things can become
steady and true
and no longer will I have to fear
the ghosts that haunt me.
©Jay-lyn Doerksen
 January 29/18

Do you ever

Do you ever think of me?

On moonlit nights

with jasmine thick in the air ;

can you feel my heartache?

Do you ever hear my whisper?

During candlelit dinners

love songs playing in the background;

can you feel my sorrow?

Do you ever catch my scent?

Under starlit skies

diamonds glitter in the night and hand

can you feel my despair?

Shards of time

slivers of silence

dreams that turned to dark ashes.

I was on my knees,

begging for one more chance

only to be cast aside with casual disregard.

Do you ever…….

©Jay-lyn Doerksen.

September 27/17





Was he a girl?

This picture is the only one I have of my dad as a child. I once had more but they became water damaged and I had to dispose of them. My dad is the one on the left. With the blonde curls. He kinda looks like a girl.

My Amma (Icelandic for grandma) really wanted a girl. She had my dad and my Uncle. Did she try to hide my dad’s masculinity for the formative years of his life? Or at least some twisted boy-girl version?

The only children my Amma bore were her two sons. And she so desperately wanted a daughter. Ironically my Uncle had two daughters. My dad had me. And my brother.

I have a couple of stories about my Amma from my uncle. My Aunt was not a fan of her mother-in-law. My mom has different stories and me, well I was her favorite so my glasses are rose colored.

Every time I have a thought regarding this character I am building I write it down. Thus far I have only had the two but I am beginning to view my dad differently. Or rather the fictional version I am building of him.

I must not paint my Amma as an evil villianess. I can only speculate as to what happened in her earlier life. We have no real on her.

My Afi (Icelandic for grandpa) is but a shadow to me. He passed away 1 month and 6 days before I was born. Came home drunk and fell down the basement stairs. Broke his back. Died of pneumonia.

My Amma and Afi shaped my dad.

Were one to look at my Uncle, respectable, looked after his family, never abandoning them to fate, you would never guess the family connection.

My dad? He is not an enigma. Not when I take my own reality of him, my mom’s and my brother’s and meld them.

He was a drunk. He left his family to fend for themselves. Never did he think how his actions affected his children. His wife.

Even as I worked to lower my expectations of him I was continually disappointed. The once sympathetic character I saw is now evolving into one you would most likely disdain.

This challenge I have set for myself is intriguing. I originally thought this was going to be a tale of a father who abandoned his children. Who chose alcohol to be his companion.

And with the turn of a phrase I suddenly found sympathy. Today as I wrote I may have had a small pain in my heart because I do believe my Amma may have treated my dad as a girl for the first while. And she babied him.

The great thing about this….I get to make it all up. But at the same time I am going to pluck my mind, my mom’s and my brother’s for memories and stories. For I realize that I need a clearer picture of the man who was my dad.

Shards of Silver

I walk through the greying mists

seeing vague shapes

to the right and left of me.

But when I call out

my voice becomes a mere whisper,

slighter than the flutter,

of a Monarch’s wings.

My tears are but shards of silver

pecking away at my heart

Uncovering hidden losses

and the pain I try to hide.

One day there may be comfort.

One day I may be free.

But until that day I shall fight,

to come back from the albatross

that hangs around my neck.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

August 26/17

I regret…..

I regret
the years that I wasted
hiding my pain and fears
with addiction.
I regret
time spent hating myself
blaming myself
for mistakes made in the past.
I regret
that it took so long
so very, very long
for me to forgive myself
and let the healing begin.
Melancholy arises
as I stare down paths
that vanish with each regret.
Paths of life undiscovered.
But there is no regret
for the path I did choose,
that path of brambles and thorns,
made me the woman I am today.
©Jay-lyn Doerksen
Aug. 20/17