Writing through trauma with Carolyn Holbrook

           Poet, mend thyself —Carolyn Holbrook

I find myself missing John Oliver Simon more and more these days. I find myself saving up things to tell him though he’s been gone nearly 5 years, since before Covid. It makes me realize anew the importance of living life fully and in the present tense. It’s pointless saving up for a rainy day. 1. Because we are in a prolonged mega drought. And 2. But the drought of the soul is a desert indeed. It’s so easy to elevate someone to mythic status especially when they’re gone, said Joan Baez, a savior is a nuisance to live with at home. 

I recently extricated myself from an abusive relationship of 21 years. I don’t miss the poor attempts at gaslighting, but sometimes I miss the man. He was great fun at parties, the singer always at the center of attention, but that was also the problem. There was little room for me. And eventually it was easier just to fall into the pattern rather than buck the system. So I gave pieces of myself away. No one else to blame. I let it happen. But at least I had a room of my own and my writing sustained me.

Ironic, it was at John’s memorial, when I was asked to sing/read a poem I had written to John long ago, Horseflesh, with music composed by Jorge Luján, and I could see the jealous rage in Neil‘s eyes—perhaps because he felt I didn’t love him like that. And truth be known, he was right, I didn’t love him like that. Not anymore. He had squandered what little love we had long ago, with indifference. I was living in a vacuum.

Ironic too, in that my poem also triggered jealousy in John’s latest lover,  So much so, that a stranger came up to me to tell me how Susan hated me. The stranger said, watch your back. I decided to make friends with Susan, instead. I also couldn’t help but think that relationship was 40 years ago. There is no logic when it comes to range and jealousy. The heart feels what it feels.

It triggered the end of our relationship because I insisted on funding my own needs in order to grieve, I chose myself first and Neil grew jealous. Why is it always comes to the needs of a man? Ironic also that I wasn’t with John all that long, and it was a long time ago. But we got a chance to hang out with each other again as older adults and we found that we really liked each other. Neil was also jealous of that relationship as well. Doesn’t matter that John was my boss for a large art residency at Emerson School.

Both men hurt me deeply. Neil threatened me with homelessness and it took me a long time to recover from that betrayal. I had given him fair warning that if he ever threatened me again, that would be the last time. I would leave. And this time I stood on my word. I don’t think he expected that. He still keeps emailing me, wanting to know where I am where I’m living, and I say nothing, other than what is necessary, I do not want to feed another cycle of hate and blame. I sidestepped that cycle having learned something from John after all. 

I am stronger for it, but I fear the future knowing that I expected to be with him for the rest of our lives. So stupid how the row began over our home, he wanted me to pay extra rent along with everything else I was already paying, but he wouldn’t put me on the lease. For god’s sake, it was only a month-to-month lease lease. He could’ve removed me any time, and it would’ve been fine. I just wanted the relative security of a roof over my head and not threats of homelessness every time we got into an argument. 

I miss all the travel. I miss the intellectual stimulation. I miss the poetry. I miss the music. But mostly, I miss the travel. Lately I have found myself wanting to sing after nearly 5 years of silence. Neil had that effect on me, Mr. music man, always the center of the party wanting adulation, not competition. I did what I could in hearth and home, and for his music career, and still it wasn’t enough. 

Sometimes John revisits me in dreams. It seems he is always right there beside me. My spirit guide. But when I awaken, I am disappointed to find that he is gone. I grasp at the air as if I could grab him from the realm of sleep and make him visible.

Sometimes Neil also visits in dreams and we carry on from where we left off. But I don’t awaken with the same feeling because he is the past and you can never go back. Ultimately the heart wants what it wants—even if it’s not good for you. To Neil I would say: an apology is necessary before we can become friends again. And I won’t be the one to make the first move. So, the only movement will be stasis

To John I would say we should’ve stuck it out, or at least revisited the scene of the crime. But I know he was more important to me than I was to him, or at least that’s how it felt. I was always playing second fiddle to his writing career. For John I would say, I wish you light on your journey despite all the pain that we sorted through, despite the loss of the child, despite the years that escaped us and separated us, but we never really left each other’s side now did we? 

At least I got to say goodbye to John and we told each other that we still loved each other despite all the years that separated us, and so we had closure. Three days later he was dead. To Neil I don’t know what I would say, I’m still too angry. Besides, if he wants to know what I’m thinking, there is always my blog. I don’t think he’s ever even bothered to visit my work. This is so much of who I am within this writing.

What would happen if we changed places and I told the story from John’s point of view? He would probably say I was too angry. He would say I held a grudge. He would say I was inflexible. He actually said that he was afraid I would get famous before he did. Instead, he was the one that got famous. I fear of the story would be similar with Neil. Man’s fragile ego, No matter what you do it is always in need of constant shoring up.

With John, I took the doldrums out. Hiding deep within myself, retreating, retreating, retreating. Starving myself until I nearly wasted away, punishing myself with anorexia. I will not do that again. No man is worth it. 

I said, No, I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth, when Neil asked, because the caveat was that I would be responsible for his debts, not just his student loans, but his credit card debts as well, as if I were a cash cow, as if I had a dowry to squander on pork belly futures that would never come. No mention of love whatsoever. For what it’s worth, John asked me to marry him too. But when a man says Look, I think we should get married. Maybe that isn’t the time to say yes.

She said poet, mend yourself. I could almost hear my other self saying that. I wish I didn’t have to waste so many years sliding down the throat of despair. But I had lost so much, and grief was my constant companion during the years that followed. It also fed my art. It seems that I have a deep desire to suffer the loss of relationships. Sometimes the half-life of grief is double that of the relationship. At least it was the way it was with Bob, Lee, and John. Now, looking back, I wonder, is it because of the babies we threw back into the cosmos? 

I can’t afford even the half-life of this latest relationship of 21 years with Neil as I don’t think I have that many more years left in me. I need a fast track plan to get out of this one. Mary Oliver said mend yourself, and then I realized that this season of grief is precisely about that. Not the outside looking in but the inside looking out. No matter which road we take, the path is always in front of us, and it is always the true path.

Though it took me a long time to pick myself back up after leaving Neil, I did not stay long in that place of darkness, I invested in myself, my writing, and my art. That’s what healed me. What also heals me is being outside, weaving my way along the valleys within the coastal range, driving those back roads along the lake. I know I’m feeling better when I’m ready to take photographs and to render my world into art. The power of the word made real.

8/23, Writing through trauma workshop with Carolyn Holbrook. Soul Bone Literary Festival, MIU, Zoom event