Confronting Child-Abuse

I wrote the poëm below back in the late nineties or early noughties. It deals with the thorny issue of child-abuse. This covers physical, emotional, spiritual, sexual and neglect issues. Please do NOT read any further if these themes might cause distress.

Of late I am once again being pestered by bad-memories that come into my consciousness unsolicited. I dearly wish I could control them or ignore them. Lamentably, I cannot. A couple of years back I requested help from my G.P. (family doctor), but they failed to follow through in making the agreed arrangements. Since then, my health has deteriorated and then of course we had the global pandemic. The counsellors are currently rather busy. I shall pursue again in the future. My doctor knows I am not going to try anything I might regret. But if you need assistance as a matter of urgency, do not feel that you cannot ask. There is HOPE and there is support and you are entitled to it.

[Image description: contact page for CHILDLINE]

If you are a child in the UK (their definition is anyone under the age of nineteen), please call CHILDLINE on 0800-1111. It is run these days by the NSPCC. They give you advice and support either directly or they can direct you to the most appropriate assistance. From someone who along with my siblings was abused by parents in the days when there was no help for kids, we lobbied hard for this service. Even the abusers need help for their issues. Everyone receives the help they need. But someone has to make the call. Please do. Or if you cannot, ask someone you trust - a friend, or a valued teacher - to make the call on your behalf.

If the reader is an adult who has been abused, please be aware that there is lots of help and support available. Try an internet-search or contact your family-doctor for more information. I am not medically nor professionally trained to offer support. This blog-post offers my own perspectives and opinions.

*

they who look like me

empty photographs

I don’t remember your faces

I cannot recall

what you look like

then

only now

that you are not so potent

ageing and greying

faceless

I have to call you parents

though you don’t deserve the title

a right the state bestowed

without my assent

you ought to have been incarcerated

retribution for what you have done

separately and cumulatively

but arrest now would only harm me

still you think yourselves innocent

despite hypocritical Christianity

or

dissembling atheïstic libertarianism

you refuse to do penance

no proffered expiation

instead

it is I who am imprisoned

embondaged to the past

ever present and merciless

a personal hell I cannot escape

founded on your abuse

of one too young

too naïf

to understand

to make sense of the meaningless

actions, misdeeds to a psychë

who had done nothing wrong

too intelligent for my own good

so why was I steeped in so much guilt

how did you twist

control-freakery

that missed the point

storgē should protect

cover a multitude of sins

even had I erred in the first instance

the shadows move closer

claustrophobia re-asserts

but I see no mien

of love

just self-reflected hate

in the mirror of your lives

the man who looks like me

walks over to the squawking child

and slaps the boy

repeatedly

back in the forties

the man who looks like me

walks over to the tubby child

and slaps the girl

repeatedly

back in the fifties

when will the anger come

not aimed at myself this time

but against you

when the release

from pain

when peace

of mind

the only gain

I need to pursue

the man who looks like me

the woman who looks like me

walk over to the cowering children

and beat the siblings

black and blue

repeatedly

back in the sixties, seventies and eighties

living still in memory

they who look like me

*

Male-Parent

*TRIGGER WARNING*

This poem and blog-post reference parental child-abuse and abusive parents.


*

Male-Parent

Inevitable murder

  death on the TV-screen

  episode of “Wallander”

Father’s downfall

Ineluctable patricide

          of a failed exemplar

Does it matter

  what has been?

Absent

  emotionally

  bodily

Violent

  physically

  torturously

Ale-stinking alcoholic

Rôle-model to no-one

What do I feel

          for my stereotypic

  parent?

His addled personality

  schizophrenic

  curmudgeonly

  toxic

Churning

  the unremitting Past

Yearning

  for a blissful Future

  for the perfect friend

  for a cinematic

  happier end

  that will endure

Sure it will last

But yet

  still none

Nobody to emulate

Much better

  in the moment

  to live here

  mutable Present

Practice one’s yoga

Meditate

  mindfully

Respirate

  quietly

Breath in

Hold it

Pause…

Out

Repeatedly

  ignoring totally

  external reality

Necessary movement

  towards holistic

ideality

Whilst growing

  surrounded by female-love

Nowadays

  just a need for what was absent

  storgē - parental-love

  philia - amity

  eros - male-love

  amour-propre -

  towards a better self-love

I suppose I want protection

  to be fathered

Hence my attraction

  to older daddies

  oh so erotic

  greying, grey

  white or silvery

  moustachioed or beardy

  hirsute and sturdy

  beefy

  beary

  burly

Wrapped in strong arms

Cuddling assurance

  I am loved

  I am wanted

  I am worthy

Don’t stop

Please foster me

And I will reciprocate

  commit

  to mutual affinity

Caged in a nervous stupor

Strong advice for

  disavowal

  of each parent

  without delay

  for renewed sanity

  from my psychiatrist

  from my family doctor

  from my psychologist

  for my self

And what of my Pater

  his ultimate demise?

No tears or false-piety

Disdain and pity

  I shall not disguise

No grave-side

  last-minute hypocrisy

He’s already excised

Now no longer

  a victim

  rather

  a Survivor

  confident

  happy

  free

  calm

Welcome

  the new

  Me

*

Normally when I publish one of my poems: I do not give any kind of hint as to what I was aiming for; no explanations as to my reasons for using specific vocabulary; no structural analysis. In short no cues nor clues. This poem is one of two recently written. I am very slow, as mostly I create the poems in my head first. Obviously, for those familiar with this blog, the reader is aware I have memory issues. I frequently lose whole poems created this way. However, this has been my modus operandi for as long as I can recall.

This one was created slightly differently. I started with a conversation I had on line with a good friend. He gave his permission for me to use our chat as the basis for a poem. I explained my usual MO and that, if he wished, I should send him my drafts. In this instance there were three: my first was the structure; my second some minor tweaking; my third additional lines and some word changes, which added twenty percent or so to the word-count.

The basic structure is as follows:

Stanza 1 - violent intro; trigger for St.2

Stanza 2 - the past

Stanza 3 - the wished-for future

Stanza 4 - the present

Stanza 5 - the types of love, the love yearned for & why

Stanza 6 - external advice on dealing with the past in the present

Stanza 7 - attitude to future parental demise

Stanza 8 - result of following external advice & pondering parental death

My friend very kindly responded in writing. His thoughts and comments follow.

*

I wanted to respond quickly on a couple of things in this poem to give you something to chew on. Please see these below in a list (since I love lists):

I love the format of having the multiple options below a starting word or phrase. This was especially successful when describing the older daddies.

Thanks - I call them “shopping lists”!

Loved the breaks and disjointed manner of the piece, especially in the "Wrapped in strong arms Cuddling Assurance I am loved..." section. 

At this point I sent the structure, as outlined above.

The paragraph (for lack of a better term) that starts "And what of my Pater..." was especially strong and I felt really hit the heart of our long conversation in just a couple of short lines. I especially liked "No grave-side last-minute hypocrisy" line because that's a very relate-able thing that people may go through or do.

In poetry the usual term is stanza, but verse is also acceptable. I use stanza as I consider verses would be of similar length & style, whereas I rarely conform to equal length nor necessarily stylistically.

Do you need the concluding line of "Welcome the new Me"? I didn't feel like it added much to the piece for me, personally. It felt like a repeat of a previous idea, despite being novel. I'm not sure if that's what you were going for or not. 

It’s the conclusion to the rest of the discussion - as outlined. Additionally I wanted to include the term “Survivor” and contrasting it with the more usual “victim”. Personally, this is because I no longer feel like the victim with no control, for I have asserted Myself over the Past. This is the result of taking & acting upon advice in St. 6 and echoes the “holism” referenced in St. 4. Additionally - ay! - the new-me parallels birth from parent, rebirth from me.

In the first paragraph, "of a failed exemplar" feels like a pretty kind/weak description based on what I know about you and the situation. Did you mean to start off softly and ramp it up through the poem?

Exemplars are more than examples, they are rôle-models. Parents are meant to be the exemplars that progeny wish to emulate. They are cutting-dies, if you like. This is a much stronger term. However, this latter term is no use here as it contains double meanings with reference to self-harm and death which I did not wish to use at this point. Parents are meant, after all, to be loving & caring as opposed to hateful & oppressive.

Though I really liked the pacing and feeling of the yoga paragraph, I wasn't sure that it felt like it totally belonged. Were you including it as an example of the type of self-care required of your up-bringing? Or as a contrast to your experiences with the violence described above it?

Mindfulness is a technique for being in the moment, i.e. not in the past. I am also gently lampooning this trendy technique. Nonetheless it is actually helpful in the armoury that deals with the effects of post-traumatic existence.

I really appreciate the effort you put into responding to my poem. None of my friends with degrees/interests in literature have ever gone to such lengths.

Hopefully, my break-down of the stanzas and the reason(s) for their inclusion goes some way to explaining what my intentions are. I am still not totally happy with St. 5, but consider it necessary so the reader can understand the gamut of loves that exist. The issue with English language is that we do not differentiate: every type is covered by just the one word. We borrow either from Greek or French. So I am accepting of having to include some clunkiness, due to this linguistic failing.

J., once again, thank you so much for your thoughtfulness and for taking the time to respond so thoroughly. I really appreciate it and you!

*

I normally do not encourage debate about my poetry. I consider they are entities in their own right and deserve their own existence. On this occasion, I am willing to engage in discussion, criticism, comment, whatever, if the reader wishes to respond in some manner. Please feel at liberty to comment in the section below this blog-post.

I Keep Feeling

[TRIGGER WARNING: this post deals with child-abuse and references suicide and blood!]

I have hinted at my childhood issues in some past postings.

Of late I have been much affected and effected by the abuse I suffered at the hands of both parents, not only in childhood, but through my adolescence, my young adulthood and to a lesser extent into my mid-adulthood. Eventually, in my mid-thirties, my psychiatrist, my psychologist and my G.P. (family doctor) strongly advised me to completely separate myself from them. I followed their advice and did so. Since then they have divorced and moved to different places, but I do not know exactly their whereabouts - and I want to keep it that way.

Over the years various good friends have suggested I sue my parents or lodge complaints with the police. Unfortunately, such proceedings would mean I should have to relive the horrors over and over again to the police, to lawyers and before the Courts. That, for me, is too large a price to pay for Justice. I prefer to direct my energies and efforts into healing as best I can and living my life the way I want to live it.

I know from my paternal Grandmother that my paternal Grandfather was brutal in his treatment of my Father. I know from my Aunts that my maternal Grandfather was abusive towards my Mother & her siblings. This may explain the abuse my parents meted out: it does NOT justify nor vindicate their behaviours one iota.

Several times prior to the split from my abusers, I attempted suicide; but since then I have not even contemplated same - other than for end-of-life and living-will purposes. I have become, at least partially, the happy and confident chap I should have been all along.

I am publishing the poem below and this brief preamble, not to garner sympathy, but rather with the aspiration that someone may find it useful to know that life does get better, that there is always Hope.

*

after so many years

       of mental justification

       of emotional turmoil

       of spiritual malaise

       of medication

              I stopped taking them

       at fifty-three

expecting liberation

scary initially

honestly

       I am still scared

so much anxiety

too many feels

       maybe

but good

       has the upper-hand

              I am certain

I feel music again

my bodily pleasures

       returned

re-awakened creativity

slumbering sexuality

       re-asserted

though no princely kiss yet

I feel me again

I keep smiling

I keep crying

I keep feeling

       impotent

       despondent

frankly

       I am still scarred

I keep sensing

       that putrescent

              touch

       veining my soul

my heart turned

       to cold

              stone

I keep smelling

       your odious stench

       polluting all memory

I used to feel nothing

       for you

              who made no effort

                     to atone

but you keep popping up

an unsolicited smear

never sufficient

       bruises nor blood

never enough torment

       torture

       fear

abused childhood

abused adolescence

abused adulthood

equilibrium tired

hope expired

       turned to a putative hate

mostly

       I just want the thoughts

              of you

              of your actions

              your nefandous deeds

                     to go away

                     to stay at bay

I keep feeling

       exhausted

       drained

longing for Fate

       to resolve

              your evil

for it has cleaved

       my soul

       my psyche

no salve

no surgery

       can heal

              the scars of cruelty

but I soldier on

       like a good boy

and I keep feeling

       never joy

       but contentment

certainly

       in your absence

              I have grown

                     in confidence

                     in maturity

                     in sagacity

I feel…

       well…

              half-alive

                     maybe

paradoxically

       I keep feeling

              worthy

                     of Love

                     of Life

almost

       happy

but still

       as ever

              that small boy

                     eternally

                            lost

I cannot stop

       now

I just have to

       keep feeling

              the pain

desperate to attain

       calmness

       cleansing

       healing

       release

I keep feeling