Please, don’t cheer at my progress! You may smile,
But let your smiles be kindly and not wry -
Not “There you see - we told you so!”. That style
Can sting.
Picture instead a fractured sky,
Filtering sunlight to a still-dark place,
Testing my skin, and scattering only shy
Freckles of happiness across my face.
Author Statement
I wrote this tentatively cheerful one when I noticed that recovery is possible.
Shame wreathes my morning, like the thickest mist.
I trickle through the day, craving the night.
I scour those nights. Does peace hide, in some scream?
But where to find it?
I can’t even find my car keys!
Brothers, sisters, I need you. Whisper in my ear.
Reflect my shaming in your tear-filled eye.
Your wounded healing takes away my fear.
Truth clears the mist, and I can see the sky.
Better: I see the circle, claim my place.
I breathe with you. Your courage is my grace.
Author Statement
The group I attend is for men, but I added ‘sisters’ because I know abuse affects all
genders, including trans-gender and non-binary. I found I was breaking rhythms all over the place – no matter. Recovery is not neat.
I grazed my rage today. It flushed my skin.
A lava-storm erupted deep within
But stayed inside, for grown-up girls and boys
Are not supposed to make an angry noise.
Bugger that! I AM, I rightly AM.
Rage that is heard, transforms - to mighty trees,
Orchards that blaze a thousand energies,
That fruit a thousand futures, as is just.
The alchemy of anger into trust.
Trust! That’s the big one. That means me and you.
That what you say, and what I feel are true.
Author Statement
Learning that I have a right to my feelings was a major step in my recovery.Feelings of
rage, grief, fear, bewilderment, shame.
'Just tickling', but his grasp betrays the lie.
Outside, the playground squeals its playground fears.
He splays the me-child, flesh against his thigh,
Manoeuvres that shame shudder down my years.
The nature study jam-jars wink: I spy!
Bewilderment throat-retches into tears.
'Thank you'. He thanks me! Knowing no-one knows
Nor must, I tiptoe-flee, pretend to play,
Then work, smile, work, and up the goody goes -
Top of the class to teatime shine the day.
The teacher tends his purpose; nothing shows;
Un-crease the child, use, re-use, toss away.
My smile survives, until in middle age
I'll shift the slab, and liberate the Rage.
Author Statement
At playtime, my Primary School Teacher used to ask me to stay behind in the classroom to refresh the water in the nature-study jam-jars, or to change the posters on the classroom
walls. These were pretexts to enable his abuse. This was the first poem I wrote about my
abuse. I was afraid, mostly that the emotion might be overwhelming, so without setting out
to do so I found myself writing in the tight form of a sonnet. it just came out like that. I
learned about sonnets at Secondary School. I spy! was a children’s game.
After,
i was in therapy for years
CBT worksheets plotted purposefully amongst childhood paraphernalia
from corners, soft lamplight was thrown like a duvet
trying to drape coziness
over the confining clinical unease.
and they were all the same
like a drugstore halloween costume labeled “safe space”
it was a factory-made attempt
to resemble the real thing
on grey walls hung posters advertising healing
as a landscape with peaks and valleys
true as it may be,
the message seemed a joke
from the merry-go-round’s plastic saddle.
one after the other
well-meaning professionals gobbled up
veiled confession
i can’t eat because it’ll make my thighs too big
was easier to offer up
than
i can’t eat because looking like a woman
is what drew him in
full from my empty bellied half-truths
they would rub their satisfied stomachs
nodding as they prescribed me
a 50mg prize
After,
i became lost in a body
that no longer felt mine
Shame sinking me deeper by the day.
not long was I gone before
the missing signs went up around me
the photo used was of the girl before
my family and my friends searched,
pleaded, despaired,
but soon the search was abandoned
and from my warm corpse
i watched as my mother,
destroyed by guilt
believing she had failed me
mourned her child.
watched as my friends moved on,
unable to keep reaching outward
only to return with untouched palms.
i watched as my kind father,
eyes heavy and confused
opens his arms wide
like a shoreline of pure hope
and he calls me to make my way
back to him
desperate for an embrace
from his lost child
it would be five long years
until I would return
to the warm sands of touch
After,
You gave me this Shame.
Shame that denied delicious food
lovingly made with intention and care
Shame that shut me out from the world
from relationships
from school
from parties
from sex
from me
years passed by under the weight
of it’s control
but now I know
that this Shame you gave me
isn’t mine.
the burden, the disgust,
the blame,
the things you placed in me
when you took away my childhood
and my voice
I can see now, they were never actually mine
this Shame is Yours.
Now,
after all this time
You take it back.
In loving memory of Before.
Author Statement
Lauren Frechette (she/her) is 22 years old and a first-year student in the Creative Writing program at OCAD University. With her work writing poetry, Lauren has learned to better navigate the murky waters of trauma, reclaim her voice, and most importantly, acknowledge the quiet beauty in everyday life. You can find her on Instagram at @laurenfrechette
He took a piece of me.
He took the peace of me,
my Godfather.
And, my God, Father, I need it back.
Now.
Please?
Peace - Oh, I remember you.
You endless summer of Lego adventures.
Daytime TV with Gran and her dentures
in a glass, and we’d laugh.
Peace - You made my sides sore and my face hot
from laughing. God, I used to laugh, so loud, a lot.
Peace - You warm bath.
You tranquil home planet, so tiny yet vast.
You safe cosy world all of my choosing,
and Mum’s cooking and Dad’s snoozing,
when all was okay,
and we all believed it would stay that way.
Until the day he took away that piece of me.
The peace of me.
Peace,
I miss you.
I miss me.
Author Statement
This is not at all the poem I just sat down to write. I’d planned to express a fierce battle cry, but instead these gentle words fell out of me like some kind of creative sneeze. I was surprised and slightly frustrated, but I went with it. It has left me quite still. I thought I was doing pretty good in my recovery but clearly, this poem exercise has illuminated an unrest within me, that I guess I need to stop and listen to. Healing is a
journey, not a destination. I’ll just keep going.
A life of Trauma is like a life at stormy sea
The brutal storms and changing tides drowned you in an instant in time.
The crashing waves beat you around and forever the fear pins you right down.
When you look towards the horizon's way, you're hoping and begging for better brighter days.
And when all you can do is continue to fiercely pray, and even with skies that are full of grey
the Creator tries to guide and lead the way... to try and teach a beautiful better way.....
Learn to sing, dance, and sway with the waves as they are beautiful too.
Author Statement
I worked on this poem, then became critical of it, and got very frustrated with myself. I tried to write something “better,” but through my sharing with an elder, and through her amazing sharing with me, I realized that this poem is the one I was meant to write and submit. I have learned that creator may not give you a lot of words or super fancy words but any words can be just as impactful and healing.
Weak, weak, weak.
My mind is in a fog.
My vision is in a haze.
This is how I spent many of my days.
Days, weeks, months, years…
My inner being drowning from tears.
And now, I have a sense of strong.
I haven’t mastered it yet but I am no longer all wrong.
I have a sense of strong…
to get me through my days.
I have a sense of strong…
to look past the haze.
A day at a time, I continue to climb.
A day at a time, I clear my mind.
Be gentle they say, you’ll find your way…
I believe you now, thank you and have the best day.
