White Knuckling, part 1

Long ago I lost someone I deeply cared about.  There's no need to go into details, except to say that for my own survival I had to cut him completely out of my world.  At first it felt as though I had severed a limb.  The loss, the excruciating absence of his presence was agonizing.  Digging to my core I forced myself to move forward. I clenched my teeth.  I gripped the wheel.  I powered through - and slowly the pain subsided to a dull ache. It was an ache that no longer over-powered me; an ache I could lock up tight and sink into the deepest, darkest part of my heart.  An ache I could walk the world with. 

(I know, drama-rama, right?  But if you've ever been there, you know.)

Recently I experienced something different altogether, yet similar; an insatiable need, of sorts, that seemed absolutely desperate at the time.  I turned to my uber-wise and super-awesome sister for strength, comfort, maybe a swift kick in the ass - and she provided (cuz she's rad like that).  She told me that in some addiction counseling groups they use the term "white-knuckling" to describe the kind of intense determination it takes to get through the rough days; the days when you think life just isn't worth living without your fix.

It was this imagery that got me through.  And not just imagery -  from time to time, when I felt the pain and panic welling up inside  me I would literally ball my fists tight, until my knuckles were pale and pulsing.  It made me feel strong and reminded me that I had the power to push past the need, the obsession, the misery.  I had the power to do anything. 

 One day, while pondering on this concept, I recalled the loss of my friend so long ago.  I let it wash over me - the memory of anguish that had eventually dulled to an ache.  And I was finally able to see it all for what it truly was: a lesson in white-knuckling.  I knew I had found my way out of the darkness back then, and I could do it again.

So I sat down and wrote my thoughts into poetry.  It actually doesn't end well, as well as my own real-life ending, anyways.  It is the truth but I didn't paint in the sunshine after the storm.  The poem deals only with the onset and desperation of the white-knuckling concept.  So sorry it's a downer. 

But I like it.

In fact, I'm sharing it with you because it is about to be published.  Furthermore, I've been asked to read it aloud at the publishing party, and I'm scared as hell.  My hope is that offering it up here first, in my own semi-safe space, might ease my nerves.  We'll see....

White Knuckling

by Lauren Horsley

I write

a start

I light

your heart

I fight

this thing

White Knuckling

I drink

you in

I blink

begin

I link

our skin

White Knuckling in

I take

a leap

I fake

you keep

I break

a vow

White Knuckling now

I grip

you run

I slip

undone

I hit

the ground

White Knuckling down

I plead

you're deaf

I bleed

what's left

I need

this fill

White Knuckling still

I wake

not there

I ache

despair

I wait

on you

White Knuckling through

I've tossed

amends

I've crossed

your bends

I've lost

a friend

White Knuckling ends