Calmly I offer you
pieces of my heart,
tenderly chosen-
which you accept
with a smile
then toss away,
crumpled.
Just another piece
of unwanted garbage-
for which you spare
no thought.
Tag Archive: child molester
In a torrrid sea of faces
and voices
I cling to you.
Fighting violently
I resist the pull
of my old life…
of lies and pretending
of repression and unspoken violence.
I don’t want this anymore.
I crave peace,
unending.
So today I figtht
so that tomorrow
I may heal.
3-20-11
I gave one sharp cry when I died. You didn’t even notice. You were so busy basking in your glory that I sank below notice even a you drove the knife home. When you cleaved my soul in two I wanted to scream. I wanted my cry to pierce you to your heart and shatter your blessed reality. How nice it would have been to see the horror of your deed marked plainly on your face for all to se as I writhed beneath you in my throes of death. You in your stupor probably mistook my cry for one of pleasure. Filthy creature that you are, so drunk on the exhiliration of conquring me, you never noticed the look of pity. I pity you. Even in my death, even in my agony I pittied you. To the very marrow of my bone I felt sorry for you. What could have driven you to these extreme troughs of misery? You sank into the abyss of mankind and you shall never again rise to the surface. I am sorry for you because even in your act of conquer, Thanatos found you. He found you and instead of taking your life, he took your family, he took your job, he took your respect, he took your calling and left you naked and begging for his skeletal embrace. He will not take your soul. It is a neat little hell you have created for your-self, is it not? You will die in hell as you have lived…
I gave one sharp cry when I died. That cry will echo through your soul forever.
It is the oldest dance in existence. Hunter and prey. As I walk into your room I recognize the rhythm as the familiar tune blares into my brain.
I am not alarmed. I am not afraid of you. I have come to expect this from you. I love only for one purpose, to fuel your desire, to sate your appetite for dominance. I am meek. I am submissive.
You are a good man, as they all have been and I already have forgiven you for the pain you are about to inflict on me. It’s ok. It’s fine. I know you’ll be gentle if I don’t struggle so I sit here in my self-loathing and let you torment me.
People say we reap what we sow. What seeds have I sewn to reap this harvest of pain and fear? I listen to your words and hear their meaning. I do not despise you, I cannot. you are a good man.
Is it my fault because I am beautiful? Do I pursue beauty because on some subliminal level I desire this maltreatment? Do I feel that I deserve this?
You are a good man. I do not blame you for your torment. You are a good man so it must be me who is wrong. I am the bad one. I am wrong. You are a good man. People look up to you and respect you. you give guidance to them. They depend on you to direct them. You are a good man. My punishment must be just. This is what I am here for here.
Am I wrong because I love you? Am I bad because in spite of your treatment I admire and obey you. Obedience is better than sacrifice. What have I sacrificed in the name of obedience? Where is the line drawn between obedience to a good man and sacrifice of one’s self?
How important is innocence? It encompasses our lives and leads us to misery. The pursuit of wisdom is good… then why does wisdom destroy innocence?
You are a good man…
I will spare only one tear for you. I dare not open the floodgates of my emotion lest the onslaught destroy me in a vortex of fear and self-loathing. You are naught but a ghost. I killed you that day. I watched you die. In desperation, I drove the knife home and I watched you writhe in agony with a bitter smile on my face. I strove to destroy you, dear child…but not without reason. I destroyed you to save you, that perhaps some small remnant of the girl you were could survive, pristine.
I was a fool to attempt this. I will never escape you. You are soiled and ugly. You are a protector of wrong, defender of evil. You cause hurt to come upon others. You have no pity. Stupid child. Pitiful creature. To know you is to loathe you. To despise your very existence. Whore that you are, finding joy in your torture, enlisting the pity of others to aid in your healing. You will never be free. You live only to suffer, die only to rot.
I did not bury you that day. I torment myself with the knowledge of my deed. My failure to eradicate you will haunt me forever. You are the ghost that haunts my dreams. You are the demon who terrorizes my waking hours. You are my hell, my prison I have created and I cannot break free. I hate you, unclean thing that you are. I am locked in here with you-my tormentor.
I shed only one tear for you. You will spend my whole life dyeing. I spare only one tear for you because you will rape my soul forever. You will rape my soul forever.
I was taking a shower today and staring at the shower head thinking about the time we had to change it. Then I suddenly remembered that there was a huge gaping hole on the other side of the wall. Changing this shower head was supposed to be simple… just unscrew the old one then screw the new one in place. Like most things in life it got complicated quickly. After trial and error we had to cut a large access hole into wall in the adjoining room to repair the problem. These repairs were taking place at about 9pm on a Sunday which meant we didn’t have much time to get the job properly done before we had to give up on it for the night and just rig it up and go to bed. Well now a month has passed and I had managed to completely forget that this huge hole existed. As long as the shower functioned properly and I didn’t have to look at the hole it was not a part of my reality. This became a metaphor for my life… I find that as long as I am functioning on a day to day level – as long as I can go to work, pay my bills, put dinner on the table, clean my kitchen, spend time with my husband – as long as I can do these things I fool myself into thinking that the gaping hole in my chest doesn’t exist. Then something horrible happens… something wonderful… my husband looks at me and says, “You don’t have to pretend here.” And I am suddenly aware of this wound. I feel it and allow myself to be broken for a moment. Just that small reminder that I am seen, that I don’t have to hide… It’s painful and wonderful at the same time. I usually don’t allow myself to feel this pain. I just gloss over it and pretend to be ok, to be happy. Something amazing happens in the middle of it all, though… Through the safe release of this pain… I find that under it I really am happy… that I really do believe everything will be ok eventually and I don’t have to rush through this healing process… I can give myself permission to be. There is so much grace in that realization.
My grandmother is fiercely loyal to her favorite son. For reasons no one really knows she worships the ground he walks on. It is not unlike a cult, with Eddie the proclaimed prophet or savior. I will never understand where this unhealthy devotion comes from. Growing up in this family of 8 children, Eddie was the one who could do no wrong. He molested some and possibly all of his 5 sisters. When they came and told their mother, she told all of the children to keep it a secret and not tell their father. She was worried that if her husband found out he would kick Eddie out of the house. She was more willing to sacrifice all 5 of her daughters to this man than to save her daughters and put him away where he belonged.
Later, after the children grew up and some had girls of their own, the entire family gladly left their daughters alone with this man knowing full well what he was capable of. It was more important to save this “good man” this “man of God” than to be sure their children were safe. It was more important to preserve a reputation than any of the girl’s innocence. We were all disposable. Just something to be sacrificed at the Altar of Eddie.
If I live to be a hundred years old, I will never know where all of the contempt came from. Why were the girls in my family so despised? Why were we so worthless to so many people? Why were our lives not more important than the reputation and freedom of one man? Why was it ok for Eddie to molest and rape us?
I know it’s impossible to ever get answers to these questions, but I long to understand. There’s a part of me that believes if I could just understand this, my life would suddenly make sence. I know this is pure fantasy and will never happen, but I just long to categorize these experiences and make them fit into some form of sanity. I want to have simple explanations, even if they are painful ones. Instead I am stuck with this horrible feeling of worthless-ness. Of being a disposable object… a thing of contempt. I feel like I must be truly broken for an entire family to want to toss me to a monster, then protect the monster.
I know one day I will be beyond this in my healing and the quest for answers will not matter so much. I know that one day I will learn to accept that my family is just profoundly broken and twisted and wrong and completely unaware of what love actually is or what it means. But between now and then I have this gaping hole in my heart and a pain that permeates all I touch and a sadness that lingers behind my smile.
I am so afraid… I am embarking on yet another chapter of my life and I don’t know if I can do this. I am finally coming to terms with how abusive my parents were. Even though they did not molest me, they didn’t protect me and not only did they not protect me they treated me like a freak when they found out. They blamed me, they buried the whole thing under the rug and went on pretending that everything in our family was perfect. I have been surrounded by this attitued of ‘everything is ok’ my whole life. No matter how twisted or painful things were in our home we all pretended to be a happy family. I don’t want to pretend anymore. My life was pain… intense, bitter pain… and I am not ok with that anymore. I will not bow down to this cult of secrets and lies anymore. I will approach my life with honesty, even if that means I cry every day until this mourning period has passed… at least I will be real.
You know, I never would have thought of myself as bad, damaged, or to blame if it had not been implied by my father. After my family found out about that I was molseted by my uncle they treated me like a freak, like a stranger. I don’t think they knew what to say to me or how to act around me. It’s like we were all lost. I will never forget what my father said, though… He had 3 things to say.
1. Are you sure you’re not making this up. Did you just want to fit in with the other girls, is that why you said this?
2. Why didn’t you tell us? Did you like it so much you just didn’t want it to stop, is that why you never said anything?
3. You are no better than a child molester your-self. If you would have said something when it happened you could have saved your cousins.
I will carry these scars the rest of my life. Before this conversation it never crossed my mind that I was to blame for any of this. Before this conversation being molested was just a bad thing that happened to me. Before this I had the illusion that my family would be there for me and support me if the worst happened. This conversation changed my entire life.
With growing interest I watch his hands
gesturing emphatically as he preaches
to the congregation about God and man.
He preaches against the sins of greed and wine;
he tells us how we are to come as a child
unto the Lord for His blessed forgiveness.
With trembling lips I beg for forgiveness.
I take the punishment from hard, cruel hands.
Inwardly, I curse the loss of my child-
hood while I listen to the message my uncle preaches.
Later, in my room, I stifle a whine
while fighting back tears of pain from the man
I have lovingly called uncle. This cheerful man
Hides secrets which are hard to forgive.
He gets high off touches, drinks them like wine
while inflicting embarrassing pain with his hand
up my thigh. Still touching me he preaches
and I can only sit stiff, a scared little child.
He talks about Jesus, who was Mary’s child
and I feel disgusted, afraid of this man.
His message seems the same as the one Jesus preaches,
but his actions are different. Does he ask forgiveness
for the crimes he committed with his holy hands?
Will there ever be a day for him to whine?
It looks thick, red like blood, his wine
of communion. I do not take any, I am a child.
With utmost kindness, he hands
me a towel to cleanse myself of he touch of this man.
I’m so scared of my uncle, who tells of forgiveness
while hurting the child who hears what he preaches
and who loves the Lord, loves the message he preaches,
Who takes what she can, who does not whine,
who longs for comfort, who begs for forgiveness,
who wants to know “Why Her?” His brother’s child.
Why must she suffer the lust of this man?
Why must she endure the touch of his hands?
captivatingbitter 