The Exile
A poem and thoughts about the exiled part of myself that I long to invite home.
Originally shared on Facebook and Instagram on August 22, 2023.
The frantic, anxious girl inside of me The one that I dream about It is her that I have locked away She is not the worst of me But rather the most vulnerable The most in need of protection Come on out, dear one Let your voice be heard Hide not your face nor your fears You have a say here But you are not in charge Come delight in our garden Gently caress the silky flower petals Rest in the shade of our oak trees Learn to feel safe Then perhaps you will no longer feel The urge to tear through the garden at night Ripping up plants Cutting gashes in the tree trunks Come on out, dear one And let the sun shine on your face
I wrote (something very similar to) this poem in August on my flight from Paris to Chicago. (I lost my journal right before heading back to France but I loved this poem so much I did my best to rewrite it.)
I was listening to the audiobook of “The Body Keeps the Score” about the effects of trauma on the brain, mind, and body and how to heal. This section was talking about a type of therapy called Internal Family Systems (IFS). The idea is that we all have many different parts inside of us that feel and desire different things for different reasons. IFS seeks to understand and unite all of these parts and learn how to self-govern.
When the author spoke of “the Exile” - the part that we desperately try to shove down because we despise them - I immediately knew who she was. I dream about her. In these dreams I am an inconsolable, anxious, irrational mess, usually over random or small things. But she’s not just confined to my dreams.
She’s the 12 year old who had a full crying and screaming breakdown upon discovering she’d forgotten a book in her locker that she needed to do her homework.
She’s the 18 year old that ran out of an ice cream shop and had an anxiety attack because she was overwhelmed by all of the options.
She’s the 25 year old who sat crying and hyperventilating on the side of the road after missing her exit on the highway.
And she’s the 29 year old who melted into tears of rage and began yelling at herself when the couch cover that she thought she carefully measured for (and took 3 weeks to arrive in the mail) was actually far too small.
Back in the plane, I paused the book, tears filling my eyes, and wrote this poem for her. For me.
May I keep learning to love her. May I approach her with curiosity and compassion rather than contempt. And may you also find the courage to invite your Exile home.
Bisous,
McKenna