To The Person Who Raped Me

You took my innocence away;

You stole my childhood that day.

One violent moment, in a flash it was gone.

And you left me there to carry on.

The memories will never leave me,

But maybe the pain will cease.

I know that in order to start living,

It's time to do some forgiving.

It's taken a while, but I can forgive you.

But I know thats not all I have to do.

I need to wrap the child inside me in my arms

And tell her she is safe, and protected from all harm.

I can honestly say that the fault wasn't mine

I was only a child; I was only nine.

What were you thinking when you did this to me??

Did you think for a moment of how hard life would be?

Of the nightmares that invaded my sleep every night??

Of the wrong you did that can never be made right?

I was too little to protect myself then,

But I sure as hell won't let you do it again.

I won't let you have control of me anymore

I won't let you keep me behind a locked door.

You stole my innocence, that's true,

But there's something that you didn't do.

You didn't take my strength,

you didn't take my heart,

You didn't take my faith in God,

Although in that you played a part.

For while you were hurting me,

I remembered to pray,

I asked God to help me, on that awful summer day.

At first I thought He just didnt care,

Or maybe He was too busy to answer my prayer.

Although he didn't answer it that exact day,

He answered it in a most extraordinary way.

He sent me people to help me through,

They helped to heal the hurts caused by you.

And now I know that God does indeed care,

And I know that He heard my prayer.

See, there's one thing you didn't take away from me,

You didn't take the gift I was meant to be.

My life was created for a purpose.

And just because you violated me,

Doesn't mean I'm worthless.

I won't let you have power over me;

I'm through being the victim, you see.

It will take a while for the pain to go away,

But I'll make it.

I'll take it day by day.

Copyright protected...

Used with permission

Thank you N for your contribution.

I'm Not Crazy

The doctors say I'm not crazy,

My parents say I'm just lazy.

The therapist says I'm mentally ill

And now I need to take this pill.

Everybody has their theory,

They think they know what's wrong with me.

My dad says I just need to pray

And God will take my problems away.

My mother says, "Just deal with it.

Go out with friends and exercise a bit.

"My friends say,"Party more while you still can.

"Why can't they just understand?

How is God going to fix my head?

How can I exercise when I can't get out of bed?

I won't be cured with kisses and hugs,

And I will only feel worse if I start doing drugs.

The hospital stays, the sleepless nights,

How long will I have to fight?

Will I battle this the rest of my life?

What man will want a "mentally ill" wife?

I wish I didn't need medication,

And I wish I could tell the entire nation,

I am not a "loony toon",

And I don't want to die any time soon.

I have a genuine disease

Not unlike cancer or diabetes

And just because you can't see it

Doesn't mean I can't feel it.

I don't want to be locked up again

And I don't want to live in pain.

I don't know how long I'll have to fight this,

But I know it's something God trusts me with.

I will not let this destroy my faith.

I won't give up until I win the race.

I may be depressed and I may not belong,

But I am brave and I am strong.

I will fight and I will win,

I will not get knocked down again.

Maybe someday I'll be able

to help someone else.

But first,I think I'll help myself.

Copyright protected...

Used with permission

Thank you N for your contribution.

Child Of Violence

~Unborn Child~

wondrous new life in mother's womb;

jolted and awakened by her fear,

head and ears bombarded, again, by the sound

waves of familiar angry voices in the night;

~Newborn Child~

grasping at the sides of your crib,

holding on for dear life;

eyes searching for the danger;

terrified by the "hurricane"

of violent arguments which surround you.

~Precious Toddler~

crying heartily as you watch parents battle;

arms outstretched;

needing comfort, wanting peace;

feeling powerless to stop the war

between "the giants."

~Frightened Child~

seeing lives threatened and loved ones degraded,

fearing your own destruction;

tender nervous system already shot;

left alone to cope with

the repeated shocks of a parent's rage.

~Sleeping Child~

rudely awaken, time and time again;

innocent victim, kept awake for hours,

tortured by the fearful sights and sounds

of grown-up fury.

~Hurting Child~

feeling so alone and so scared;

wanting to cry - all the time;

no one to tell, no one to help;

knowing by age 6

what it feels like to want to die.

~Vigilant Child~

ever watchful;

reading your parent/abuser's every sign;

learning how to keep out of harm's way;

not daring to sleep

until the dust had settled.

~Shamed Child~

embarrassed by the family violence,

head and spirit already lowered in shame; f

eeling like a failure,

unable to save those you love

from the batterer's wrath.

~Uneasy Child~

never knowing when the storm

will hit or when it will end;

growing up in chaos;

unfamiliar with words like

"tranquil," "stable,"

"relaxed," or "carefree."

~Courageous Child~

witness to abuse most people never experience;

routinely overcoming terror,

your strength paid for

by all the pain you have known.

~"Empty" Grown-up Child~

without a sense of self;

told by parents that you didn't count;

feeling like you don't matter;

relying on other people

and "things" for a sense of value.

~Guilty Grown-up Child~

in whom self-hatred has resided;

So guilt-ridden that you did whatever

you could to survive

while others suffered

~ in a holocaust called home.

~Lonely Grown-up Child~

so isolated;

feeling like no one can understand

what it was like and how much it hurt;

Fearing that the war,

deep in your memory,

will never go away.

~Angry Grown-up Child~

left to recover;

So hurt by parental neglect;

struggling to work through emotions

distorted long ago; learning to trust;

learning to forgive

~ them and yourself;

learning self-respect;

and, learning how to resolve conflicts

without violence or abuse.

Copyright 1992 by Barbara Corry.

Used by permission.

Thank you Barb

Instead Of Love

Instead of love, father,

you taught me the ugly

contorted face of rage.

Instead of kindness,

you taught me how

to criticize, belittle, and pick-at.

Instead of moderation,

your drinking taught me how

to be irresponsible with a substance.

By your example, I learned

how to use food as a crutch,

and how to numb myself with it.

Food medicated my constant anxiety

and compulsive spending

became a way to purchase self-worth.

Instead of learning to speak

to others with respect,

you taught me and devastate others

with words when I am cold,

hungry, tired, or stressed.

Instead of serenity,

your drinking and violence

created emotional chaos for me.

Instead of stability,

you left me a legacy

of battles and temporary truces

between you and Mom.

Instead of self-respect,

you taught me

self-sabotage and self-hatred.

Instead of peace,

your violence taught me

to fear others and

to worry constantly.

Instead of tranquility,

your wrath toward mother

made me afraid that you

would turn on me next and destroy me.

Instead of equality and partnership

between men and women,

you taught me that men

had all the power and that they

had the right to mistreat women

whenever they chose.

I also learned to fear domination

and control by men

and how to avoid intimacy.

Instead of self confidence,

I learned to feel "bad"

for surviving unbeaten,

and "guilty" for wanting to live...

while others I loved suffered your rages.

Instead of sleeping peacefully,

I sleep lightly, fitfully,

and in a constant state of vigilance.

To this day, I suffer the consequences

of traumatic shock.

I awaken with a start

in fear of mortal danger

and ready to flee in an instant ~

from even the most innocent

of noises in the night.

Instead of closeness, teamwork,

happiness and fulfillment with a spouse,

you showed me how

to exist unhappily for decades

and how not to do anything about it.

Instead of conflict resolution,

you taught me how to

accumulate pain and stuff my anger.

Instead of teaching me

many other good and noble and gentle things,

you created a part of me

that hates and that rages

~ and then turns these things inward on myself.

Instead of love,

I feel an enormous hurt,

a profound emptiness,

and I feel very, very sad.

©1992 by Barbara Corry

~*~*~*~

Used with permission of the author

Turmoil

Turmoil seems around every corner.

Is there a way to escape it?

I think not.

We live with fear every day.

Do not tell us to think postive.

The word has little meaning to us now.

We are just trying to survive.

Can you grasp the need for

minute to minute survival?

I wonder.

You all sit in your cozy little chairs

in your quiet little minds and wonder

what to eat for the day.

We, on the other hand,

sit in tension all of the time,

wondering if now is the time

we will go over the edge.

Do you sit and look around

every little corner to see if

the one person is lurking there?

Certainly not.

People would think you crazy.

But what if that lurking person

lived inside of you?

What if he or she had the force

to destroy you

and all that you know and love?

Could you sit in your comfy little chair

and not worry?

I wonder, and yet

that is just what you expect all of us to do.

Weariness is a part of every day.

The ones on the inside grow stronger.

You tell us to fight.

What if there is no fight left?

Can you not understand weariness?

Can you not understand

fear for one's self or sanity?

No, these things are far from your imagination.

But let me tell you

these are what we live with every day.

Hope, you say Have "hope."

The words sounds wonderful.

We'll try, but remember please,

our war never stops.

Some of our people never sleep.

They thrive on fear.

Our fear especially.

Please do not judge,

you have not been in our place.

You cannot begin to understand

the daily fight that must be fought.

Don't tell me that we are strong enough to fight,

we are weary.

Don't look at us and say Pull Yourself Together.

Our System doesn't work that way.

Don't look at us and say you understand.

You can't, you have never fought this battle.

Don't tell us to think postive or think of us as one.

Others do not understand.

PLEASE, PLEASE,

try to see that we are all working

the best that we can.

We do not try to live your life for you,

please do not try to live ours.

You cannot,

because we have enough trouble living our own.

We have others who will try

to make your life run more smoothly,

but even they tire and must pull back.

Please try to realize

we want this to be over as much as you do.

Our life is not our own,

it belongs to many others

and so we must do the best we can

with the things that are given to us.

Most of us realize

that it puts a strain on your life

and we are sorry,

but look at our life,

if you can call it that.

The anger, terror,

fear and weariness abound.

Can we control this

much longer without rest?

We'll see!

© 2001 by Far

~*~*~*~

Thank you Far for sharing.

I Am Many

Hi, My name has many, so many am I.

I am a lady, but yet I am a man.

I am an adult, yet I am a child.

I am meek, yet I am bold.

I have many talents and speak

in many different voices, yet I am one.

I have many in my famliy, big and small, yet I have none.

I can be many things at one time.

I can be happy, but then be sad.

Or I can be fun and then afraid.

I like to be at peace with myself,

and I am only a piece of myself.

I can remember almost everything,

but yet I forget all things.

I have pain, but yet feel none.

At all.

My thoughts are many,

yet I hold only a few.

My eyes see many things,

yet my mind holds illusions.

I am old enough to think,

yet too young to know.

I can travel many places,

yet I never leave the room.

I can always see yesterday,

and never remember today.

I am big, but yet I am small.

I am old, but no,

I am young.

I am me, yet I still become you.

I have a lot of love, yet I hate.

I have many friends,

and young ones to play with,

yet I am still alone.

I talk to many people,

and they talk me,

yet I talk not at all.

I hold alot of dreams,

and yet the dream still hold me.

I have a lot of ideas,

and many fantasies too,

yet I know them not at all.

I can see and know what is real,

yet I am in a fairy tale.

I can talk of many things,

yet I keep a "secret."

I have but one life,

yet I live many.

You know me,

yet I know you not.

You see the good,

but I know the bad.

You see the laughter, while I am sad.

I hear many voices,

yet there's no one around.

I know not faith, yet I have hope.

I am all things, yet I am none.

I can see and feel the sun,

but I still walk in darkness.

I can say one thing, but mean many.

I hear the cries, yet you hear the birds.

I know of things, yet not of life.

I know of people,

but not as freinds.

So when you see me

(yet I don't see you),

speak to me as many.

And many will speak to you.

© 2001 by Far and others within

~*~*~*~

Thank you Far for sharing.

It Matters

This tragedy of life,

A small child torn and hurt,

Her innocence taken away.

So violent was his rage,

So angry the pain.....

What's going on,

What did I do?

Why is he hurting me so, tearing me,

The Pain~

I try to scream and nothing is heard.

Why is he so angry with me?

What did I do to deserve this punishment?

he is gone now, I lie here bleeding and hurt.

I am crying, but don't know why.

Nothing has happened, Not really.

I must have awakened from a bad dream.

I lie shivering, clutching my pillow,

Fianlly crying myself to sleep.

It wasn't real,

Just an evil nightmare.

The first of many, I am soon to know.

It couldn't have really happened,

So it doesn't matter how I feel.

Or Does it?

© 2001 by Far

~*~*~*~

Thank you Far for sharing.

Give Me An Angel

Where are the words ?

Stuffed deep down inside my soul.

I can't get them out.

They just seem to hide inside my soul.

The tongue that I speak with is tangled and tied.

The spirit thats broken won't mend til I die.

My heart speaks the words

that my voice can not say.

It tells of pain

that just won't fade away.

It cries in the night

and it cries in the day.

It wanders alone

in a valley so dark and grey.

Cover me with white roses

from my head to my toes.

Fill me with the fragrance

as sweet as a white rose.

Take all the pain

and gently dispose of it.

Whisper " I love you"

so I can hear you.

Touch me with gentleness,

wipe all my tears away.

Just hold me with arms

that don't go away from me.

Keep me in your heart.

Everyday.

© 2000 by the authorwho wishes to remain annonymous.

~*~*~*~

Thank you FS_16 for sharing a part

of you, so that others will know

They Are Not Alone.

N's Story

"N, when is Daddy coming home?"
"I don't know Sis, I don't know."
"But I'm hungry."
"I'll make you a grilled cheese."
"But you aren't old enough to use the stove."

Daddy comes home staggering
with fancy desserts from the restaurant.
I tell him she can't eat them on an
empty stomach, she'll get sick.
The next morning he gives her
a glass of orange juice.
I tell him she can't have orange juice,
it burns her stomach.
Daddy starts to cry.
"I wish I had more time with you," he says.
But he always dumps us on his
sisters
or girlfriends.

I don't remember doing anything bad.
I know I am an ugly kid.
That's why he is always mad at me.

He drives us home with a beer bottle
in his hand. Sis gets to sit up front.
I tell him that the radio is too loud,
but he doesn't hear.
He says to hold his
bottle for a minute. I won't give it back.
He gets mad.

I knew how to make his drinks before
I knew how to write in script.
Sometimes Grandma stays with us. Usually
it's when we've been real bad and Mommy
runs away.

Daddy works too much and smokes too many
weird cigarettes. Grandma says Daddy is
a bastard. My aunts say that Mommy's
a whore.

So what does that make me??

L's Story

"Thank God I had a caring aunt and cousins who served as a model family for me. I hated being at home and would spend as much time as possible at my aunt's house. I strongly feel that it was because of them that I was able to keep going…knowing that when I "grew up" I would have a chance to have a nice family of my own, like that of my cousins.


There were many nights that I would pray that both of my parents would be killed in a car crash or something just so I could get away from them. Or, that some miracle might occur that would end my father's drinking -- and the physical abuse my mother dished out. He was always a "man" never hitting her back. I admired him for that. I remember many times telling him to hit her back. It was just so sad watching this drunken father being hit, scratched, screamed at, etc. In one of the fights, my mother threw a beer bottle at him, the bottle hit the wall and came back and split his pupil in half. He remained blind in that eye until the day he died. All I knew was that somehow, I just needed to get out.


My nightmare came to an end when I met a very special young man. He knew all that went on in my house because he worked near by. I always felt that I didn't have to hide from him because he already knew. He's seen my dad drunk at the wheel of a car, passed out with the horn blowing and blowing. Yet this young man, now my husband, could see all this and treat me like a real person, even make me laugh. Even though we were young, it seemed like a much better life than I had previously; my husband was my "knight in shining armor.


"Today, I am still trying to deal with certain things that happened, like being called all kinds of derogatory names because I had met my future husband. I also feel strongly that it is important to somehow deal with the violent situations so many people are in. There must be some way to get people to understand what is happening to their children and themselves. Somehow this country and the people in it need to wake up and face what is going on.

The Band Aid

When I was 27 years old, I began getting angry. This anger turned into rage. I couldn't understand where it was coming from. All issues of my past had been dealt with,or so I thought. I decided that I was angry at my father because he was such a mean, bitter person, and that therapy was necessary.

So, in January 1994, my journey began. One of the healing efforts offered me was to do a collage, something to show the hurt and anger and pain and rage that I felt as a result

of years of childhood sexual abuse at the hands of my brothers. Somehow, deep down, I knew this was for me and I started saving magazines and newspapers. I bought special crayons and glue and even special tape for my endeavor.

This took months of preparation. I cut out pictures and letters and words from newsletters to newspapers. Every childhood drawing I'd ever done I tried to think of. Every part of my being, my heart, my mind, my soul, went into this.

My husband gave me such patience and acceptance during all of this time, especially when it came to the day that I was going to make my collage. I had to do this myself, but I couldn't be alone so I asked my husband to just sit in the room with me while I cut and cried, glued and cried, colored and cried, pasted and cried. He sat so quietly, so calmly, with such love. After hours of work, gallons of glue,and oceans of tears, I sat tall and went to my husband to show him

and share with him this healing that was so much mine and earned and deserved.

This sweet man stared for what seemed an eternity. He asked if he could put something on it.

At first I couldn't believe that he would be so intrusive as to want to "mess up" my work. Then I stopped and said to myself, he needs this also; he's listened to me and caught so many of my tears. I thought he would draw a hokey flower, or write something funny for me to smile at, but what he did forever changed my life.

He walked down the hall, to the bathroom medicine cabinet and came back carrying something really small. I asked what it was and he just said to wait. Taking my big piece of posterboard to the table, he bent over for about a minute and came back to me. I looked and stared in total disbelief. The profundity of what he'd done wasn't missed by my heart and the healing tears flowed more than ever as I began another part of a wonderful journey in my life.

What did he do?

He took a small Band-Aid and placed it in a very small corner and with a red crayon wrote LOV, the O being a heart. God speaks to us in so many different ways. I heard Him loud and clear that day.

By Donna P.

C's Story

When interviewed, C was a 20-year-old college student.
She states that her father was an alcoholic who physically
abused her mother. Although he never hit C, her father
would threaten to kill her mother and would pull out a
gun in her presence. When her mother tried to hide the gun,
he would beat her.

C states that her home was never a happy house. She never
had friends over to the house because her father was drunk
a lot. She notes that her mother largely ignored her during
the battles. Instead C, at age seven, was comforting her mother.
C found a little respite at her grandmother's house because that
is where all her friends were at.

Eventually, her mother divorced her father. C visited her father
every summer and hated it. She doesn't speak to her father now,
because she doesn't like to deal with him.


How was C affected by growing up in a violent home?

C states that she has blackouts. When she hears an old song, She sometimes gets an eerie feeling or feels confused and gets scared. C contends that she has "apparently inherited the family pattern of picking chaotic partners." She has had a lot of emotional abuse from her boyfriend, though he never hit her.Eventually she realized her boyfriend was not capable of treating her the way she wanted and deserved. She decided she was missing out because her boyfriend didn't show her half of what she gave him. Realizing he did not know how to love, she broke up with him.

At the age of twenty, she feels that she has had a little too many sex partners. Believing that if she gave a man sex first, he would not take the time to get to know her and not be able to hurt her.She at one time had a sexual relationship with a woman. C thought that maybe with a woman there would be a strong emotional connection. She confided that she ultimately found her to be as cold as a man. She ended the relationship because it was not what she thought it would be. The relationship was lacking the love and trust and support she wanted.

Today, C is maturing nicely. She reports that she is now going to church more, and feels this has helped her. She is trying to find a connection with God. She also wants to help teens so that they don't have to go through the same thing she did.

DISTORTIONS OF ANGER

DISTORTIONS OF ANGER

Adult children of violence witnessed anger in the extreme.

They are taught how to rage by the raging adult.

Some learn how to rage and bully to avoid being hurt by others.

Others become afraid of expressing their anger

because of the extremes of the rages they witnessed.

Adult children may distort their anger into other feelings

such as depression, self-loathing, or failure

for having failed to save or protect the victim and stop the batterer.

Adult children of violence

may harbor unexpressed anger at the abused parent

for failing to protect them or a loved sibling from a beating;

or for ignoring their pain, be it physical or emotional,

during battering incidents.

May be angry at the abused parent for that parent's passivity

when attacked and/or failure to leave the abuse.

Adult children may learn how to

repress or "stonewall"anger from the abused parent.

The child may also be angry with the abused parent

for not getting angry and standing up for self.

The adult child may "take on"the anger

which the abused parent should have expressed.

The adult child of violence does not witness

possitive ways to disagree or resolve conflicts.

The adult child may become angry with themselves

if they were or are passive

or too fearful to confront the behavior of the batterer.

Anger turned inward can be distorted by:

Not trusting one's judgement

~or~

Not trusting one's power to act, to say no,

or to walk away from abusive situations.

~by Barbara Corry

All rights reserved under Copy Right Laws

For Every Child

For Every Child

For every child who cries at night

Alone with shame and pain and fright

For every child who wants so much

To only feel a gentle touch

For the beaten child, who cries in pain

Whose tears run silent, like the rain

For the child used to satisfy lust

Who never learns to love or trust

For the child taken from her/his home

And made to feel so all alone

For the child whose home is just a shell

Where life becomes a living hell

For the child who smiles but cannot feel

Because of scars too deep to heal

For every child who yearns for love

hope and pray to God above

To hear your cries and heal your pain

And give you back your life again

~Author Unknown~