The Song Of Cassandra.

If words could be unwritten and songs could be unsung,
If rivers could run backwards and wrongs could be undone,
If the wisdom that comes only from experience of years
Could be learned in some way other than by crying one's own tears,
Our stories would be different the scars left would be few,
If only we had known back then the things that no one knew.
But on this note of sadness, the story does not end,
For love and truth do triumph and the brokeness does mend.

Anorexia nervous and bulimia - how sad the people say,
That a perfect young woman would choose to waste away.
There must be a good reason - perhaps she was too fat.
For what other purpose would she want to live like that?
Anyone with any sense can see it's gone too far.
Why don't her parents stop her? This is getting quite bizzare!
She has become too skinny - while eating like a horse,
With hours in the bathroom to pursue her secret course.

Her family's so perfect - not a flaw that we can see,
The American dream personified, enacted in 3-D.
It must be all the lessons, or the clothes we see her wear.
If it were me, I would be grateful - seems she doesn't care.
It really is unusual, the way she spends her time.
She runs by here at seven, then at three, again at nine.
She used to be so happy, so alive, so much a part
That her loneliness and sorrow racing by me breaks my heart.

What is it that happens that turns laughter into tears,
Transforms a vibrant girl into a skeleton of fears?
There is no simple answer - no formula - no gene,
Just conjecture, speculation basued on what's so far been seen.
Of theories there are many, but none adequately explain
How starvation and vomiting can serve to lessen pain.
Some say it's the mother; others say it is the dad;
While others can say it's neither 'cos it's just a passing fad.

My story is unique to me although I have discovered
That others can relate to it who have not yet recovered
The gate was narrow, the road was hard that led me back to life.
Perhaps by sharing me with you I will lesson some of your strife.
Recovery was not permanent until finally I could see
The behaviors and the symptoms of what was hurting me.
For deep inside, I was afraid and covered how I'd feel
With calories and exercise and cooking gourmet meals.

My family did the best they could with everything they had.
As I look back, I see no blame - no one of us was bad.
I saw love as conditional, something one achieved.
I look to other people to make me feel okay.
When they asked me who I was, I knew not what to say.
I wanted them to love me for who I was inside,
Yet when somebody tried to care, I'd run away and hide!

The dieting and exercise helped me to excape.
It protected me and shielded me like a big black cape.
Silently I was screaming out for a helping hand,
Just someone who would listen and try to understand
That what started as a diet was no longer any fun,
But a prison and a fortress that held me like a gun.
To ask for help meant admitting that I'd let you down.
Smiling hurt too much to fake, I didn't know how to frown.

I write as one recovered and one who's filled with hope
That the energy misdirected can be used to cope
With a world that is imperfect and a family that has tried
To do the best with what it had in order to survive.
The darkness of despair and fear can be pierced with light,
For once love fills the void within, there is an end in sight.
The process of recovery brings healing to the home.
It stills the hunger deep inside with a peace as yet unknown.

The path is not a wasted one; healing may take years,
But victory is possible for everyone who hears.
It rarely can be done alone, and thus one must supply
A source of truth and love upon whom you can rely.
Some choose faith in God above, others a human source -
In either case, healing comes when love's the driving force.
Deep within we're all the same and each in our own way
For wisdom, love, and truth to give meaning to each day...

If words could be unwritten and songs could be unsung,
If rivers could run backwards and wrongs could be undone,
If the wisdom that comes only from experience of years
Could be learned in some way other than by crying one's own tears,
Our stories would be different the scars left would be few,
If only we had known back then the things that no one knew.
But on this note of sadness, the story does not end,
For love and truth do triumph and the brokeness does mend.