The constant shame and self-judgement.
The many times I tried to tell someone and froze.
Feeling like I was a target for abuse to happen. What had I done to cause it?
My innocence was lost. Who would love someone like me?
Plagued by feelings of unworthiness.
Existing for others and never for myself.
Feeling lost, alone, unseen.
My true self hides in the shadows no more.
We have to listen
We have to act
Protect our children
That's all we ask 🙏
MLG Survivor
RIP MK 🙏
Derrick Brown in The Voice for Others
lush fabric hangs
Tied with a ribbon of silk
No, a rubber band
Thick pads ready to absorb
A coloured liquid
Red and gold
A stain of grape
The candle flame almost gone
Pencil and paper, bleached
Tiny fibers, linen Grey
I'm sliding into dissociation
A movie of my life
Behind glassine
Make all the marks on
Mistakes are few
I see my face shadowed in light
Pressing on the pane
MD in Obstacles to Overcome
Author Statement
I wrote this poem to describe how I deal with something called “derealization,” which is a mental health problem that means I’m watching a movie of my life unfold before my eyes. It’s a condition I’ve had all my life and it’s a dissociative disorder. In the poem I tried to show how I use art to cope with daily episodes and being triggered into derealization, which affects me in a way where I feel numb and zoned out. I totally immerse myself in art and that is my God.
Waywaymegwun, Randy Charboneau in Personal Transformation
I look for codeine on the faces of boys, in the taste of thumbs wiping underneath my eyes, in the mattresses with three untucked corners and the stain of loneliness tattooed onto the hem of its comforts, where she fucks herself just to feel loved because no man should touch the demons in her spit, the death in her lungs, the disease of her mind. And I cannot give it away, because I am a sheep-in-a-wolf’s-skin virgin. And I feel that by speaking this, by the end of the night, I won’t be. That’s the relationship I have with humanity.
I have makeup on my hands from trying to make all of the ugly pretty, and they don’t teach you in high school how to breathe through the carbon; they tell you just to make diamonds. Tell that to the little girl halving my insides, locked in the cupboard because she doesn’t want anyone to hear her cry after the father figure of her life ripped himself from it in the burn of Velcro, and why the fuck did she make herself like Velcro? Did she not know it only burns for the surface left behind? That the bandaid feels no pain being ripped from the scraped knee of a toddler? That the mask simply falls after the masquerade, leaving the unseen seen and vulnerable? Why did she make herself of Velcro? Why did she make it so easy for broken to smoke his twelve pack inside of her… like the hand beneath her blouse, and why does everyone justify it with the insanity of age?
No! I was too young to be split like the hairs on my head, the ones my mother wasn’t pulling to make sure her palm connected. What sound are you even supposed to make when you’re being massacred in half? And I can’t stand myself long enough to fully love myself for the propriety in hating myself. And you had no right to tie my apple limbs around your own and shake the produce from my face - this is not a game of how quick we can spoil the fruit or break in the jewelry cases of little glass girls. Because she was a girl, and she trusted you.
And my words are not baseball bats in a messy, touching collision with your chest. My words will not bring the cheering masses to crest on the lonely shore of my lonely mind, because these words are not poetry.
These words are the words spent too long in silence. They are the words ripped from a young girl’s rusty, faucet-throat when she’s screaming nothing but the made bed of silence. These words mean nothing to those standing on the shore of the riverbank, watching the currents as they drown boys too young and baptize girls too old; and they will not matter to the bodies beneath them, cheeks bloating in the salt of their embryonic pockets.
But these words matter to a girl at war with herself and god. To a sister constantly worrying when she will lose to the water. To this girl, who is screaming her eyes dry to you now, because these words nesting in the caves of my throat have been silent for too long.
Nullibicity in The Experience of Pain
Author Statement
I understand staying quiet, and I understand feeling like you need to tell someone or you’ll explode — I stayed silent about it for a long time before I was forced to open up about it, with none of the people displaying healing, loving, or helpful reactions. It wasn’t until a decade later (and 7 years after the creation of this poem) that my disclosure was finally met with the love and support I’d originally craved.
My hope in this piece is that people take away the knowledge that speaking up can be empowering, but that breaking the silence is best when it feels right for you, and with the people that feel right. There isn’t a strict timeline or obligation, just what is best for you and your circumstances. But when you get to the point where you’re able to share your truth… I hope it can relieve some of the pressure. I hope that it’s healing. I hope you reach a point where you don’t feel like you have to censor yourself anymore, or that you’re a sealed envelope, forever to hold the secrets of your experiences inside you. Your power is in your life, your experiences, and how you choose to share them.
Randy Charboneau in Personal Transformation
I didn’t know how to tell
Who to tell
I felt scared and unsafe to tell
I was 9 when I realized something was no longer right
Not good
It was happening as far as back as 5
It felt good
I felt special
I knew to expect physical pain when revealing any kind of truth
But
6 years forward
I NEEDED to tell
I needed to YELL!
I wanted it ALL to stop!
NO MORE!!!
I don’t want to keep remembering THE day of disclosure
I was 15
It is when and where PTSD began and… had NEVER ended
Slapped, punched, made out as the liar, the bad one, trouble maker
“Get out!!! You are disowned from this family!!!!” echo echo echo echo echo echo
Isolation became both my salvation and peace
It’s safer alone
But… I didn’t know with aloneness came blind onset of worthlessness
Suicide
Disassociation
Survival… and surviving meant, for me… Success without “YOU!” I needed no one!!
Proving and earning my worth into International success!!
20 years old…. WHAT?!!!!
He abused more than me?!!
Someone I loved more than life myself?!!!
I felt an unforeseen force wave over me
Unstoppable
He NOW NEEDED to be STOPPED!!
Without fear, immense anger I without hesitation charged him!
Within one year he was found guilty on two counts;
Gross indecency with a minor
Sexual assault
Do I feel better?
I thought I would
I didn’t
Far from it
If family was distant before
I am NOW the very wrong and bad one
Made to stay away
Suicide sets in again
But I survive
Life goes on
Taking any job that has me look like I’m living my best life
Im married now
28 years old
Fast forward I become a Mom
THIS changed EVERYTHING!
Forgiveness
Love
Reflection
Accountability
Advocacy
Education
Healing
All became my hungry quest for being a part of child abuse intervention
But how?
Finding out how meant reaching out for help, asking questions to get answers too where I felt sometimes embarrassed, guarded, vulnerable and protected
It was not a way of living I was used of
Not my normal
A full transformation
Through it all, I discovered where I thought was the weakest to display was quite the opposite for it was within EVERY human being…
When I stopped to listen to another, and another, and another that, it was in OTHER’S sharing where I rose to discover that;
Vulnerability is the GREATEST superhero trait to EVER expose
It breaks all barriers and causes a planet to shift!!!
A planet for sustainable transformational and positive change, possibilities and miracles!!
Today, I HAVE forgiven
Myself
My child offenders
I have reconciled
I am ALWAYS healing because healing is no longer a negative thought for “fixing me”… healing, for me, is a gracious, very worthy lifestyle!
Who am I?
I AM Charmaine Loverin
I would NOT be who and what I am WITHOUT everyone who has contributed to my life, whether comfortable or not
I am FOREVER grateful
đź’›
Charmaine Loverin in Obstacles to Overcome
Ink blotted canvases
filled with words of
despair and anger,
mixed with an
overwhelming sense
of anguish.
Admittance and guilt
is shown through the
poor excuses of a man.
Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve,
but didn’t know better.
Or rather, knew better but
ignorance stepped in,
shadowing any sense of
wrongdoing and
inappropriateness;
slicing ties of trust that
once were inarguably
bright for all to see.
Now, dull and faint,
nonexistent; severed ties.
The places I once stood
weak and frail with fear
enveloping my figure,
I now stand with empowerment.
My dignity returns.
My worth returns.
My power returns.
New found strength grows
thicker within and I roar,
“No more!”
KM in The Power of Voice
Author Statement
I had confronted my latest abuser of six years via a written letter, detailing all of the events and how each circumstance affected me. My abuser responded by expressing apologetic guilt while noting no recollection of these events nor his behaviour. This poem is the outcome of confronting him and taking back my power.
A tenuous ego sits waiting for memories folded warm and cozy…aware of their place in the shadows, amongst the mold and cobwebs of emotional death.
The artifacts of youth mark the precipice…without anchorment their purpose long forgotten imprinted remnants.
The dust of dreams coat the surface, penetrating fractures of memories hoarded… stored but never hidden. Always peering out.
Razor sharp tears of anger slash deep along the skin, an attenuate memory provokes
the quicken of flies’ legs, a tickle.
Yet, darkness awakens with the skin swathed in alcohol. Serves the flies’ larger hunger for morsels nestled in the ruptures…
The folds of shadows warm and cozy quell not the soundless gargoyles screaming on the edge of duress…remnant soft dust and dreams in the interstices.
The kindling of regeneration, rejuvenation, and transfiguration
ignite the remnants of dust and pain, building a blaze, releasing the heat of regret…
Welcoming the blessings to let go, as the warmth of transfiguration engulfs the soul,
embers rise to the ethers…illuminating the darkness, home to old fears.
Rise…rise…rise to the occasion, leave room for dreams, the nascent appearance of hope… the inkling of new purpose beckons.
Dust embraces the ethers,
Fear embraces the ethers,
Pain embraces the ethers, scattering and healing.
A heart warmed by the burn barrels embers…envelop relinquishment, envelop freedom, embraces blessings with inner strength for forgiveness
A new path…a new journey, continuing…
Frank J. DiMaio DC, MS in Personal Transformation
Author Statement
I was honored invitation to participate in the poetry project. However, I faltered in the execution of the poem itself until the framework of my artistic endeavors embraced the regeneration and rejuvenation of my personal connection to the five elements, and led me to find my voice. This poem reflects my journey.
Sometimes you got to get through your fear to see the beauty on the other side.
— Poppa Henry, "The Good Dinosaur"
Writing this poem took my deepest feelings and fears out of deep storage, for which I am simultaneously grateful yet trepidatious. Truth: I have spent my life walking between two worlds, one in which everything was as calm and bright as outward appearances would show, where I sought adventure, and often found it. I have had several successful careers and, at 72, I am still “young” – at least at heart. I have a wonderful, colorful family, and friends around the world with whom I still communicate
Despite my successes and triumphs, I have spent much of my life angry, ashamed, disconnected, and alone in the deepest sense of the word. When my wife passed away from breast cancer, my grief offered no solace, compassion, or gentle hand of support to hold a person up; so, writing became my best friend.
Through symbolism, I exposed shards of my shattered childhood and my deepest pain. Being part of the Gatehouse experience in the beginning was an overwhelming period. The demons of my youth were woven into the very fabric of who I became as an adult. In retrospect my inner child was at the helm of my ship, and me along for the tumultuous ride of my life. Finding the Gatehouse was a blessing. Through supportive individuals, I began to journal again, expressing my inner turmoil. The process forced me to face my demons and gain the courage to put them where they belonged – in the burn barrel.
The pain of my childhood betrayal will never go away; but I can talk about it without breaking down. The process is ongoing; my friends call me “the turtle” because my actions are slow and deliberate. All of the above does not exhibit how far I have come - the next chapters are still unwritten, because something wonderful is always about to happen.
The poem I submitted for the Global Poetry Initiative stirred up emotional dust for me, at the same time releasing it. My wish is that sharing my experience of healing, however slow the process is, will be words that comfort others, chosen by those looking for a guidepost for hope. My poem reflects my journey, and the journey continues. And I am blessed…