Use trauma to propel creativity and success | Emily Trusk | TEDxFondduLac

A performance of spoken words by local poet Emily Trusk serves as a way to share her story and provides her ideas on how poems and other forms of writing can help others share theirs.

This Talk was produced in partnership with Sirna Productions. Emily Trusk is an empath, a vivid dreamer, a singer, an artist, but most of all, a poet. She uses words and voice to draw meaning from darkness. Poetry is her way of healing trauma and using those experiences to create art. Emily graduated from UW Oshkosh with a Bachelor of Science in English Literature and is now the Community Engagement Coordinator at Thelma Sadoff Center for the Arts in Fond du Lac, WI.

This talk was given at a TEDx event using the TED conference format but independently organized by a local community. Learn more at https://www.ted.com/tedx

We don't talk about going to rehab
or getting too drunk after work.

Masters of hiding beer cans
behind toolboxes,

slurring words to the grocery store clerk.

We don't talk about our sexuality
unless it's on the straight and narrow.

We don't talk about it

because we're afraid of being scraped
on the sidewalk by strangers,

who only know us by the hands we hold.

We don't talk about our mothers

and their bodies
they have sacrificed for us.

We don't talk about those monsters
who have invaded our bedrooms,

who have taken things
that do not belong to them,

things that we've been saving.

We don't talk about the dark nights
spent bent in front of a mirror,

blood dripping from our fingertips,

hurricane eyes swirling,
raining from pain,

not knowing if we're crying
from the cut or the rape.

We don't talk about these things.

We say, "Hi, how are you?"

"I'm great."

We roll up our sleeves.

We say, "Want to grab a drink?"

For me, poetry is therapy.

It is the way I live my life after trauma.

I let things go by putting them
on the page and keeping them there

instead of ruminating inside my mind.

And after many years, I've realized
that poetry has always been my therapy.

I remember as a child
of being sent to timeout

because I was a very naughty kid.

I would rhyme words together
to pass the time.

I used to write love songs for the boys
who broke my heart in middle school.

When my family broke up

and life as I knew it was
ripped away from me,

I wrote poetry.

When I was self-harming, I wrote poetry.

When I was recovering from self-harm
and my scars were healing, I wrote poetry.

When I was taking
way too many sleeping pills

in the darkest most oppressive state
in my life, when I was in college ...

I wrote poetry.

It was the only way.

You see, there is an interconnectedness
in the economy of words in my work

that serve as a bridge

from broken person

to beautiful mosaic of colors and emotions

that make me who I am today.

And healing through poetry
goes beyond just words.

It moves into the world
of mindfulness and breath.

When I write, I find a quiet place
in my mind and in the physical world,

and I let myself just be.

I become grateful for my trauma,

for I am now creating art through hurt.

The line breaks in my poems
remind me to breathe,

to take a moment
and appreciate it for what it is

and what is yet to come.

I become so vulnerable
as I stand before you

and I perform my work.

But that is truly the best part.

It is my hope to not only bring healing
to those who share in my experiences

but to encourage those people
to share their own soul,

to revel in their darkness
to find their lights,

to create their own art
through their hurt.

I encourage all of you to share your soul.

I encourage you to write
love letters to yourself

through poetry, art, music -
what have you, whatever your form is.

Now you know that my poetry is my therapy.

What will yours be?

The last poem I'm going to perform today
is called "Sleeping in the Shower."

Getting out of bed today is hard.

To lift my head from my pillow,
who swallows me only to spit me out.

The sun taps on my windowsill and says,
"I am here. Come out and play."

I lean back into the mattress.

I fail today.

I convince myself I am not OK
and I won't make it through.

There is daylight now,
but all I see is blue.

So I go back to sleep,
not a deep sleep but a catnap

full of bad dreams and ugly things
that make me want to sleep more,

silently, alone.

My best friend calls me - ignore.

She will understand;

she has been where I am before.

But what I don't know is she needs me too,

how the sun needs me,

how the moon needs me,

how I need her more now than ever before.

So I throw my pillow on the ground,
make myself stand up, toughen up,

go to the bathroom, get my spit cup,
brush my teeth - haven't in days.

Because who would kiss me anyway?

I'm ugly, a failure, I've gained weight.

I can't count my fingers,
I'm crying my eyes.

Who's talking?

Is this me?

Who are you?

I get in the shower
but fall down cold, wet, shivering.

I hold the shampoo bottle for comfort,

but I am through with using
the shampoo bottle for comfort.

Still I do.

Though my muscles are lean
and I'm wired to move,

my brain tells me, "Don't do it."

I have a paper due, haven't started yet.

I told my professor I'm sick, and ...

it's true.

I feel like I'm lying anyway.

Regret is thick like a layer of milk
from my drink in the sink two weeks ago.

Dishes aren't done.

I haven't been feeling well.
Don't mind it.

My dad calls me every day at 3:00.

I practice what to say.

I can't have him worried about me.

He has too much going on already.

So I say, "I'm doing good. How about you?"

He says the same, so I worry about him.

What if he feels tired
and heavy like I do too?

Thank you.

(Applause)