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Sherry Barton Poem
"Cry Ugly"
My deepest private searing pain manifests as "Cry Ugly.”
Guttural moans race like a runaway train. The wail crescendos and peaks as a Banshee scream.
Tears race down my face… my nose leaks... snot and tears merge dripping off my chin reminding me of small intermittent waterfalls… I taste salt.
Vain furious attempts to wipe this viscous interloper off my face and out of my eyes... are an abject failure... smearing and smudging it on my cuffs and sleeves.
Insidiously, shame begins its invisible infiltration at the edges of my soul… like carbon monoxide… alarms sound…
My body wracked with sobs crash into gut-wrenching convulsions… segueing into dry heaves... my worst bodily insult to endure.
Dehydration sets in... it's hellish… my eyes are burning red... my tongue starts sticking to the roof of my mouth…
I'm vaguely aware of a bone weary fatigue, like a translucent feline apparition peering around the corner… waiting to pounce… I'm helplessly trapped in "The Twilight Zone."
Another crying jag begins... repeating the cycle... this time dehydrated…
No articulate speech is possible… silently and falsely telling myself I could care less… but I secretly do care.
My shame permeates, thus reinforcing a belief never to allow witnesses…
A tiny voice of hope cries "this is wrong"... I can't make out the words, I feel its faintest vibration… yet unsure of its meaning… I feel it's important...
Gut-wrenching sobs escalate into a silent scream…the Banshee seems to be silent… but it isn't. I'm the only one who hears and feels the scream tear at my throat.o
I can't move... my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth… now I am desperately trying to pry it loose… my voice lost…
I'm doomed waiting for hours and counting the endless seconds... utterly unaware when I subtly slipped into an exhausted lethargic stupor.
Looking back at my self-imposed shame, recognizing its insidious march through my body… gathering recruits, comparing it to carbon monoxide, capturing life sustaining hemoglobin and leaving traces so this poison can insidiously and subliminally metastasize as if it's cancer.
"Cry Ugly" is my private hell to travel alone… refusing to allow witnesses, telling myself lies that I'm protecting them from helpless observation… believing this is the only course available for me to get to its other side…
This is a self-imposed solitary journey… shameful... in truth needs to be shared… so I can survive…
Sherry Barton
July 2021
Copyright © Sherry Barton | Year Posted 2025
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Sherry Barton Poem
Race Track Thinking
16… little did I know the initiation began. 16 is hard enough navigating adolescence. Hormone dumping, the anguishing struggle to fit in any way—- relinquishing my individuality, and being true to myself. Unbeknownst, this was at my expense.
I didn't choose these ADHD and BPAD diagnoses, and the other Alphabet Soup “ingredients.” They chose me… I didn't choose mind racing… sometimes feeling my thoughts were out of control - well !!!
Most of the time a random whispered thought, barely connected, pops in uninvited and insistent to be acknowledged and immediately included in my conversation… Most of the time it's a detour with posted signs that helps bring me back to the conversation, with minimal disruption. Thoughts drift, and barely nudges the adjacent car, our cars wobble… we stay on course… on topic… a tweak of adrenaline seeps through… Many of my family and friends are used to these and take it in stride.
Sometimes, my thoughts feel hijacked, suddenly split off into several lanes racing side by side… three, four wide… round a race track… I lose track of how many laps… although I know there are connections to the original topic. They're tenuous wisps of smoke, can be seen, yet not grasped.
They're the moments of confusion… for everyone. The smooth glide of the conversation hits an air pocket… a temporary jostle… the conversation's back on course. Whew, a possible disaster averted… No harm no foul… much… It's undeniable and can't be overlooked by anyone, especially me. Many times I'll “joke” about a brain fart. I may joke about it. It's not really a joke, it's distressing and embarrassing.
Yet… I know I'm responsible… and sometimes I'm completely at a loss what to do, much less, how to prevent it.
It's Groundhog Day again… endless recycled racing around the track… No! Absolutely not… it’s not a “okay………. let's go do that again” situation!!!
There are times, the urgency intensifies… a random thought's magnetic pull, strengthens… An internal fight ensues… my wheels take a turn… seemingly as if I'm no longer the only one driving. Onlookers witness a verbal spectacular crash worthy of a NASCAR race… everyone walks away… bruised, sore, limping… the conversation is in shambles. Others shake their heads… I'm questioning, how in the hell did I get here? What are the consequences I'm responsible for? Sometimes I'm left feeling terrified.
Or... Instead the battle for control is so fierce, I no longer have any control of the steering wheel. Everyone… especially myself, other adjacent drivers, and onlookers watch in horror as the cars burst into flame… horrifically sometimes… someone doesn't walk away. What the do I do with this?
Knowing what I want to say or how to act, and that my body seemingly won't let me sensation - isn't a state anyone would knowingly choose.
Regardless, I'm totally responsible for the consequences. Is this the skin you'd choose?
Even 53 years later, my mind sometimes leaves me feeling confused, embarrassed, ashamed, and even betrayed… that my thoughts once again… derailed? Are the consequences irreparable or irreversible? Past losses were devastating. If so, sometimes I fear I ed up things and relationships I value the most. Especially the promising ones, ones barely starting. The most painful consequences are the loss of important relationships. I have no choice but to just deal with it!
Then there are my far more frequent slightly amusing fuddlings… My family and friends understand these occasional thought detours. The conversation returns with their gentle redirecting me back on course.
Then, there's another group, the best possible group… those members speak varying degrees of “Sherryese.” Those fluent in “Sherryese” follow my tangential threads…trusting those threads will return and weave back into the conversation’s tapestry. Then the connections are revealed. I treasure my “all weather friends”… I'm truly understood!
So which title fits the best? Some days, if I'm lucky, only one fits, those “Sherryese” detours. Other days? It's a combination…
I could feel sorry for myself and indulge in a pity party (I've done that far too often and far too long)… or put on my big girl panties and forge on, muttering under my breath… bummer heavy sigh…
Sherry Barton
February 22, 2025
Copyright © Sherry Barton | Year Posted 2025
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Sherry Barton Poem
The Look Is Fast As The Speed of Light
I got the look!
Instantaneous…eyes snap sidewise faster than the speed of light…
Freeze tag pinned in place…
Duh da da duh… I'm in trouble, blown something…
No question… no room for doubt… Yet not really…
Dad's unique cue… falling in between traditional parenting cracks… Straddling between discipline and time to nip this one in the bud…
That I can't believe _____ (fill in the blank) … I'm annoyed… to… well.. fits almost any category
A genetic predisposition… or inheritance?
Who cares? I got it! It's mine!
The girls got the look…
Doug. He's more than a worthy mention. Countless outcries… Don't give me the look!
Too late, once you said “don't” ….it's fait accompli!
Sherry Barton
May 10, 2024
Copyright © Sherry Barton | Year Posted 2025
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Sherry Barton Poem
Second Guessing In To Out
Sometimes, I wish… my ears to brain to mouth worked as close to normal as possible. These are the times when I second guess the communication process. Life and communication would be much easier.
I often second guess the whole process of information coming in and what I say going out. This is more prevalent when I'm stressed, in pain, or exhausted.
First, I need to determine if the words (transcript) I hear are correct.
Second, determine if I understand the actual intent of the words… Did their non-verbals match their words? Is my interpretation and summarization accurate? Did I really understand the person, and their intended message? Am I successful and they felt “heard”?
Now, based on numbers 1 and 2…what do I think? Sorting through my thoughts and feelings first. Figuring out how to “say what I mean, mean what I say, and not say it mean?”
Finally, do the words I speak match what I'm thinking?
A great deal of energy is required within seconds to process.
It gets complicated when I feel peppered with information, I don't have enough time to sort it all out. At some point, I'm unaware that I retreated behind an opaque boundary. Words are muffled and I can't clearly see the non-verbal cues to see if they match. Usually within minutes I'm back. However, I'm trying to catch up with the full conversation.
Fortunately, this happens less often.
Sherry Barton
February 23, 2025
Copyright © Sherry Barton | Year Posted 2025
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Sherry Barton Poem
Alphabet Soup Stigma
A multitude of letters bob and undulate as I stir the soup.
I gaze confused when I notice the letters haphazardly merge together…Magnetized letters repel and pull together.
Slowly familiar acronyms form. PTSD, GAD, BPAD, MDD, and more.
I recognized DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) acronyms.
My feelings are mixed. Why does society still shun and stigmatize people diagnosed with these letter formations?
Or, has society finally learned that mental health disorders are chemical imbalances? Am I understood and accepted as I am? Am I stigmatized? And by who? Yes, unfortunately, it goes without saying.
Sadly, my professional mental health co-workers and colleagues are the worst. You'd think they'd be more supportive…
No, unless you are a published author or a recognized expert in the field. Yet, are these published and expert consumer providers stigmatized by their professional co-workers and colleagues? Probably…
It's more likely society will come around before the professional mental health co-workers and colleagues do. You'd think it'd be the other way around.
Other chemical imbalances aren't stigmatized… Why is that?
It's in YOUR head!!! We're still trying to figure out the answers.
Sherry Barton
May 10, 2024
Copyright © Sherry Barton | Year Posted 2025
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Sherry Barton Poem
Emergence And Layers
Everyone has layers
Unknown layers… are mysteries of your soul
Peeling back layers brings you closer to your core and soul
Revealing your core shines light on your soul
Your core and soul emerges for others to see and feel
You are known…
Sherry Barton
Copyright © Sherry Barton | Year Posted 2025
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Sherry Barton Poem
Alphabet Soup
Everywhere I look, I see acronyms…
A language all of its own for each category.
A shorthand of sorts.
Outsiders confused and aggravated.
They requested clarification.
Only to be answered with jargon shorthand.
Sherry Emma-Pederson Barton
April 13, 2024
Copyright © Sherry Barton | Year Posted 2025
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Sherry Barton Poem
Race Track Thinking
I didn't choose an ADHD brain. At times a random whispered thought, barely connected, pops in uninvited, insistent to be acknowledged and immediately included in my conversation…
Most of the time it's a detour, with minimal disruption. Thoughts drift, barely nudges the adjacent car, and our cars wobble… we stay on course… on topic… a tweak of adrenaline seeps through… Many of my family and friends are used to these and take it in stride.
Sometimes, my thoughts feel hijacked, and I find myself at a race track racing side by side… my thoughts linked to the original topic sometimes are like tenuous wisps of smoke, can be seen, yet not grasped.
They're moments of confusion… for everyone. The smooth glide of the conversation hits a temporary jostle… the conversation's back on course. Whew, a possible disaster averted… No harm no foul… much… It's undeniable and can't be overlooked by anyone, especially me. Many times I'll “joke” about a brain fart. It's not a joke, it's distressing and embarrassing.
Yet… I know I'm responsible… and sometimes I'm completely at a loss what to do, much less, how to prevent it.
There are times, the urgency intensifies… a random thought's magnetic pull, strengthens… An internal fight ensues… my wheels take a turn… seemingly as if I'm no longer the only one driving. Onlookers witness a spectacular verbal crash worthy of a NASCAR race… everyone walks away… bruised, sore, limping… the conversation is in shambles. Others shake their heads… I'm confused and questioning, how in the hell did I get here? What are the consequences I'm responsible for?
Or... Instead the battle for control is so fierce, I no longer have any control of the steering wheel. Everyone… especially myself, other adjacent drivers, and onlookers watch in horror as the cars burst into flame… horrifically sometimes… someone doesn't walk away. What the do I do with this?
Knowing what I want to say or how to act, and that my brain at best won't cooperate, at worst a betrayal - it isn't a state anyone would knowingly choose.
Regardless, I'm totally responsible for the consequences. Is this the brain you'd choose?
I could feel sorry for myself and indulge in a pity party (I've done that far too often and far too long)… or put on my big girl panties and forge on, muttering under my breath… bummer heavy sigh…
Sherry Emma-Pederson Barton
February 22, 2025
Copyright © Sherry Barton | Year Posted 2025
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Sherry Barton Poem
"Fierce Review"
Hindsight reviews tells me so much of what I want to keep, change, or completely drop.
My fierce review of my marriage and how my best fell short giving Doug what he earned and deserved… A review only as a widow, not as a divorcee, or in the middle of a dying marriage.
This was my self-imposed solitary journey review… shameful... regret… sadness… which theme this time? Or all of them?
Leaving me open to harsh judgment, constant reminders, recriminations and unrelenting examples of my transgressions voiced aloud by others, outsiders looking in. Refusing to consider he had a role, any role for my deep disappointment and hurt. A state of unfulfillment, private between a man and woman, partners…
Roles I’d never articulate. Our private conversations, dynamics, roles, frustrations, etc., are private. I will not tarnish their opinions and views about Doug. In their eyes, he could do very little wrong.
Outsiders looking in aren't necessarily wrong. Doug was one of these rare individuals whose nurturing and nonjudgmental acceptance of people where they're at. He gave me that, and it was vital to my healing, sometimes at the expense of his happiness and fulfillment in our marriage. He knew I gave 100% of my capacity, and sadly and regretfully it fell short for him and his needs.
Time to figure out… was my review objective and valid? Or was it based on a lifetime pattern of pervasive guilt, assuming guilt for problems I don't own? In my heart, I know all are correct.
The path to healing begins with forgiveness, forgiving myself for being human. Giving 100% is all a person can do, even when it falls short.
Sherry Barton
February 22, 2025
Copyright © Sherry Barton | Year Posted 2025
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Sherry Barton Poem
Discovering Light
Cry Ugly shame lost its power
Shame was regret…
Buying into malicious judgment I wasn't good enough…
He knew I was more than good enough… I gave all I was capable of…
He loved me because I gave 100%… even when my 100% fell short
He channeled his disappointment and hope through his poetry.
Discovery emerged reading his heirloom book… regret quickly segued into shame.
Shame perfected as a child… stepping stones used to set my foundation
Decades devoted to unraveling the source… reflected in the dark strands of thread woven in my tapestry
Oblivious of the light, silver and gold spun adjacent to and translucent overlay… changing the tapestry's initial designation.
Sherry Barton
April 13,
Copyright © Sherry Barton | Year Posted 2025
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