Veterans Arts Empowerment Project, The Arts in my life, Carissa DePietro
Wounds of a Soldier by Carissa DiPietro
The wounds of a soldier
run deep to the soul
The scars that they bare
our stories untold.
The darkest moments
civilians don't see
For they do not know
the depths that we grieve.
One moment so proud
we're all standing tall
The next in a corner
broken so small.
So what do we do?
How do we breathe?
How do we move on?
How can we be free?
Step number one
so simple yet true.
Listen to my story
it's right here for you.
About three years ago I came to the conclusion that I was
barely alive. I had breath in my lungs
and a beat in my heart, but no will to do anything. I would get up in the morning, drop the kids
off at school and head back to bed. I
would get up again pick them up from school and head back to bed. My children began to learn if they wanted to
spend time with me it would be to eat dinner with me in my bed. I hated myself for that. So, I decided that my new years resolution
would be to try something new. I saw a
flyer for Feast of Crispian and I emailed them right away. It was a Shakespeare intensive program and I
was terrified but intrigued. I went to
the first one and even though I wanted to run out of the room I was surrounded
by my people, fellow veterans.
Eventually I began to open up and slowly tell my story in this safe
room, with these safe words of Shakespeare.
We would do these intense scenes that would bring out these huge
emotions and then you had a room full of people that supported you. In this room was where I shared that I was
raped in the military, which is something that I had buried deep inside and in
this room I shared how my daughter was killed.
Theater brought a passion for me, a reason to get out of bed, and a
reason to finally be proud of myself. I
also have written poetry. After my
daughter was killed I lost, what felt like everything. I had to be strong for her to endure her
funeral, her burial and all the way to her trial. After the sentencing was over and the man who
murdered my daughter got involuntary manslaughter and was sentenced to 12 years
in prison (though he only served seven for good behavior) I went back to the hotel and I cried. I cried for hours until I had no tears left
to cry. And then I wrote a poem which
was later published in the newsletter Parents of Murdered Children.
The Lonely Night
The nights are so lonely
because there is no more escape
no more crowds to hide in
no more streets to walk
the nights are when the demons come
where there is nowhere to hide
and there is nothing left to say
all you can do is cry
until you can't cry anymore
that's when you truly are alone
because not even your tears
will keep you company.
All you are left with
is an emptiness inside
a hallow soul too tired to care
a broken heart too hurt to love
your mind screaming for help
but your mouth can't form the words
you pray that sleep will come
to make the demons go away
but fear will sit deep
inside of you throughout every
moment of everyday
for too this day will pass
and the night
that lonely night will come again.
I feel like I will always be healing but never truly
healed. I feel like the arts is my
salvation, my breath and the way that I am able to get out of bed and try at
this thing called life.
I used to write poetry once in awhile as a teenager but
wasn't that great. My mom passed away when I was 18, and I know I wrote a poem
about it. And then I didn't write anything again until after the trial was
over. I recently took a creative writing class through the VA and it sparked
something inside of me. I miss having that creative outlet. After Ashley died I
buried everything deep inside, it's the way I survived it all. I mean she
passed away a couple weeks before 9/11, so I never really a chance to grieve.
So the arts has helped me reconnect those emotions, and begin the grieving
process. I've been in therapy over a decade with little success, but when you
incorporate the arts with therapy then that's when healing can truly begin.
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