1998

It was 1998, I was a depressed sophomore in college and brilliant Agnes Scott English professor Steve Guthrie was the only person who believed in me (or so I thought). He was the only person I knew who believed in me. He was emphatically vocal about his support, not interested in wading through my navel gazing when I would flop down in my requisite 90s dyke uniform of docs and overalls in his office, complaining about whatever I was upset about. He wanted to talk about the writing. He was one of the only professors I would go see between classes when I wasn’t in a class with him, just to visit, just to say hi. So at his urging that year I submitted a bunch of my poetry (he loved it) to the Writers’ Festival magazine and this poem made it. 

I found out recently that Dr. Guthrie passed away in 2021 and I am mired in grief at his transition off this plane. Like so many authority figures I respect, I frequently avoided going to see him to make contact when I was in Atlanta after I graduated and moved away. Over the years I was intimidated to go see Guthrie (my affectionate nickname for him) when I would come home to visit. I was afraid to go check-in and was nervous because when I did go see him, he would always look at me with his pretty, handsome face and say in his firm, gentle voice, “Treah, what are you writing? Are you getting published?” If not, are you self-publishing? If the answer was no then “why not?” He was always keeping me accountable to the process. And I was too busy, caught up in ego, in shame and perfectionism to tell him the truth that I wasn’t writing and wasn’t trying to get published. I was too paralyzed about being a bad writer, a beginning writer, a good enough writer to try and practice this skill of mine that he loved. So I avoided visiting and spent twenty years not writing and not doing lots of things I love. And now Guthrie has transitioned and I have regret and grief and not a lot of practice with my writing. But after I turned 40 I decided to really start exploring what makes me happy and figure out what nurtures fun, joy and gratitude in me…so that looks like going to dance class, going to the ballet as a spectator, buying myself flowers, and getting closer to that which nourishes me. Now I’m a 45 year old trying to find her way in the world and I refuse to give myself a hard time for not going to see Guthrie more, it is what it is and if he were here he would say, Treah, what are you writing? So I’m putting my writing here. 

I recently found this link to the 1998 Agnes Scott College Writers' Festival Catalog online. My poem is the FIRST piece in the whole catalog (alphabetical by last name! poetry is the first category in the catalog!) The text of that poem is also here in this post, with a few edits. I can feel my anxiety creep up and my heart starts to beat faster when I think about publishing this post. I don’t want folks to see or know about this poem now like I didn’t then; but Guthrie and the other folks on the committee thought this poem was good enough to be in the magazine, certainly an honor, I don’t have to hide it away. It’s disrespectful to his memory and to the memory of my struggling 19 year old self trying to survive. 

Getting closer to my writing has been more emotionally loaded then I anticipated and when I was looking up Dr. Guthrie’s info to reach out and connect since I knew he was retired, I was shocked when I found out he had passed away. My motivation to keep going, to write more, to practice more vulnerability feels stronger than ever, especially since I can’t share with Guthrie the way I’ve been used to.

I still don’t know if my poetry is good, I still struggle with depression and I still know that I love to write and people I respect say it's good but I’ve always been too insecure to do anything with it. I know that wherever he is (I don’t know his spiritual or religious beliefs but I know his spirit is free and easy) he is proud of me. Guthrie, other professors, teachers, mentors, beloved friends and family members tell me over and over that my skills and gifts occur most often and most vibrantally when I am being my most authentic self (I think that’s true for all of us). Me being myself is in part me being a creative writer, participating in the task of writing and bravely publishing what I am writing. I don’t know who my writer self is these days or what that looks like exactly but I do know that I ask my clients to do brave things and I want to be a person who does brave things too! Here’s a piece of my own vulnerability: some of my writing, specifically one of Guthrie’s favorite poems by me. Here’s to the people in our lives who believe in us before we can believe in ourselves.

the rains came - the grey skies rolled
treah caldwell, 1998

i ran around in my jeans and t-shirt and made sure our ears were
bolted
down - down - down - down
mine had to be safe, i worried
tamika and her dad had big rollers over theirs, their glass
wouldn’t be blown out in the wind -
i ran to band, my clothes were soaked - 
i was wet - i was late to band
would Mr. A be mad? 
my shirt was wet - could see through it -
my fat rolls jiggle as i ran and i could 
see my bra - could others see it? -
those people in my head!
- i was so scared changing, by myself - 
the storm was coming!!! The grey skies rolled
i wanted to go out to lunch with you - you left me
i called out to you, YOU were in My car, and you 
drove off    middle finger raised     peeling out
. . . but my friends were in the car and not me . . .
oh you beautiful boy - don’t tell your parents you like boys. 
shhh . . .
your blond hair blue eyes penetrate my soul
i’ve always loved you, what do you mean -
- the airplanes whizz by my head. It scares me, 
why are they making that noise? 
there’s Ms. Cassel and Ms. Vaughn . . . no i won’t mess it up
your stupid jewelry isn’t hurt–i didn’t mess it up!
but I have to find a seat and now i’m late and i have to 
get a seat behind the white column and I can’t see and im
frustrated. 
you evil looking scarry are sitting in front of me. Your arms
are around those two whorey looking women, in church, in the pews, 
your eyes
look like fire.
don’t touch my foot

Never Give Up

Hey y’all! What a time it’s been. I decided to let the larger community and friends of Therapy with Treah know what’s going on, so I started a blog! Welcome. I’m nervous about my writing and an anxious perfectionist, so please accept this very imperfect blog as an offering to vulnerability. I want to start with an introduction to one of my favorite things: ART! I love all kinds of art; visual art, street art, gallery art, kid art, homemade art, 2D and 3D art, and especially weird art. The picture on this blog of the “Never Give Up” mural was taken by me, many many years ago when I lived in Kirkwood after moving back to Atlanta from getting my Master’s degree in NJ. Sadly this beautiful mural, created in 2012 by @emedemati, has been painted over, but it lives on in my heart, a kind of mental testament to who I want to be and who I believe I am. The letters of the words “Never Give Up” as you see them are made up of tiny red and blue Xs and Os, painted next to each other, over and over on the white background. I have never felt connected to a piece of art the way I did this mural. I love Ellsworth Kelly’s Red White from 1962 but that’s a gallery piece held in the permanent collection of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. The mural encompasses the transitory nature of street art which is a better analogy for love than any gallery piece held in storage, in low humidity, in the right lighting, saved, protected and as perfect as possible for the duration of all time. Art on the street is hammered by nature, the sun, the wind, and life is happening all around it, all the time. That’s an analogy for life and love if I’ve ever seen one. This particular piece combines my love of LOVE with my fundamental belief in never giving up, not backing down and holding on to and claiming every shred of joy, every morsel of comfort, every moment of connection one can get from life because life is hard. It’s a beautiful representation of not giving in to the darkness that’s always lurking around the corner and at the edges of our own hearts and in the outside world. I often see tenacity and stick-to-it-ness characterized in the media and entertainment by an “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” kind of hustle mentality that often comes across as so hard and so lacking in tenderness. I respect the hustle, I really do, but there’s so little humanity and connection involved and we are boiled down to our capacity to produce, compete and WIN as equated with our very worthiness. I reject that! In the places and spaces when love and connection are prioritized it’s all soft pink haze (a wonderful oft hated lovely color, the color of my website), it’s all clouds and defenselessness and vulnerability which is so often seen as weak and lacking. But the real strength, the real work is in holding the softness and the fear and the courage and staying soft. The only way I’ve survived my life, my work, this world is by combining my deep love and deep vulnerability with this aspect of “never giving up.” I was thrilled to see it in artistic vision on a huge tunnel wall in my old neighborhood. But like so much, I had to let the mural go and remember the many times I drove and walked by it on the way to work or play, participating in my life. Like so many other relationships, events, times, objects it only exists in my memory and I hold it softly in a place close to my heart, one of the hardest working muscles in the human body. Like the oracle Cardi B says, “Look myself in the mirror, I say we gon' win/Knock me down nine times but I get up ten.” A daily reminder that I am grounded by and based in love and compassion always and I hope you are too.

Is art a source of joy and replenishment for you? Do you like street art? Gallery art? Performance art? Both? Wherever you go to look at art, go check some out soon! There are numerous studies that show the positive physical and emotional benefits of looking at art. It releases dopamine (feel good, calm down) into our blood, can increase critical thinking skills and lower feelings of depression and anxiety.

ETA: I’ve been thinking about the ending of this blog and come to the conclusion that it was unclear and steeped in white supremacy. White women especially have a long history of silencing marginalized communities, especially Black and Indigenous people, by using words like “love/peace/kindness/compassion” to shut down necessary critique and call outs from people of color about racist behaviors, language and microaggressions. I am grounded by and based in love and compassion for myself and I believe in Beloved Community. What groundedness looks like behaviorally on different days and in different situations is different for different people, sometimes it's gentle and sometimes it comes with the power of rushing water! And that’s what I want for you, especially if you are a person who holds even just one of these identities: queer, trans, Black, Indigenous, people of color (QTBIPOC), disabled, femme, low-income, survivors, and all other oppressed people. (language from the Anti-racist Education Working Group) I am queer, disabled, femme and a survivor but I also hold race privilege and some class privilege (my disability prevents me from working full-time but I do have a graduate degree) So when I say I want groundedness and love/compassion as your starting point, that means considering love and compassion for yourself in prioritizing your OWN wellbeing over that of what others/the system/people in positions of power want for you. That may mean for example, getting a good night’s sleep and eating a good breakfast so you can go and disrupt some sh*t and block a highway or go to a coordinated direct action protest. Other times being grounded by and based in love and compassion looks like staying in bed and sleeping because your body and your spirit needs the emotional and physical rest the comfort of a safe nest provides. I am NOT inviting anyone to prioritize love and compassion over the safety of oppressed people or to use love and compassion as language to silence others.

*(also something else I’ve been thinking about, does ethical consumption even really exist for anyone other than the financially privileged? does it exist at all? that’s a conversation for another time, maybe another blog topic) If you have any thoughts or feedback about this topic, or anything else, don’t hesitate to reach out to me at TreahLPC@pm.me!

Therapeutic Thoughts with Treah (the cheesiest blog name ever)

Welcome to the blog! I’ll use this space to write about all kinds of things and keep you updated about life at Therapy with Treah. Be compassionate with yourself and get some good rest. It’s been a trial by fire so far and I can’t wait for rest of the story.