Protect Me

Handle it,
I ask.
But you find an excuse,
You don't foresee the abuse.

So I went,
You stayed.
Words spoken under breath,
Drew me into another death.

What I spoke,
I regret.
My response frustrated.
Left painly irritated.

Protect me,
I asked.
But you left me to walk
Into the trap of my talk.

Hope turned to Loss - Poem

Window opened.
It flew in.
Pretended pretty,
Helped to win.

Less than one week,
Turns to frost.
Burnt and hurting
Aches the loss
.

I Feel The Tears

I feel the tears upon my face, I know what I am feeling is real, in reality.
The tears--they comfort me--I am human, I cry.
Jesus came to earth as a man; He was human; He cried.

Tears Rolling on one's face
(tears are falling by sternenkindi on DeviantART)

At times when I feel like the world is closing in, like I am not connecting or misconnecting with everyone, especially those dearest to me, little things like tears helps me to know that I am alive.

When I see one reality and the world seems to see another; when I feel one reality and others feel another, I began to think maybe something is wrong with me.

Why do I sense, feel and see what others do not? Why I am sensitive?

So I ask to pray, offer to pray, want to pray with others, but I am told to pray alone. My prayers are not wanted. This hurts. I feel unloved, unwanted, rejected, misunderstood. It is like handing someone a gift and having it shoved back.

I love prayers and being prayed for by others. I consider it a spiritual gift to have someone love you enough to pray for you, but I am told others see it as being spoken to and told things that one would not say unless they pray.

Purpose Unseen Known

Icy surface fractured,
Cracked fissures, broken,
Again
In many places.

Many things shape us - broken ice woman by killersmemo DeviantART

Fragile, cold, hard,
Flat edge, touched--
Seeps
From the healing seals.

Softened sometime,
Within, burning heat,
Deep
And Pressured without.

Hear the same tune,
Cycles the jukebox,
Spins
Playing the encore.

The ice pick hits,
Grates and shaves-- chips,
Flakes,
Chisel shapes the form.

Purpose unseen known,
By One Mind Above,
Works
Together For Good.

He skates across,
A well-worn surface,
Gone
To make his own mark.

Fragile, Yet Strong - Two Faces of a Child Abuse Survivor

Fragile, Yet Strong.

Or should it be, Strong, yet Fragile.

Both apply to days, moments and seasons of my life.

Surviving child abuse made me incredibly strong. I can survive almost anything. Pain is endured. Insurmountable odds are diminished, giving me a perpetual "I can do" attitude.

I am able to bear up others, can handle crisis, can support teams, can dig in and do the hard, heavy, dirty work. I need little to sustain me. I know how to survive with minimal assistance.

Independence, resilience, long-suffering.

And still,

Surviving child abuse has made me incredibly fragile. Unknown insignificant little things can pierce to my core and shatter me. I am left defenseless, exposed, incompetent.

I am able to relate to hurting people, understand without words completely spoken. I feel and know and reason in randomness. I come along side, pray, and encourage because I have been broken.

Delicate, sensitive, unpredictable.

Two sides of the same coin - two faces of a child abuse survivor.

No answers, solutions, conclusions.
No complete healing, though every day I move forward toward being a little better, toward wholeness.

Reverberating Recoil - Trauma Triggers of Adult Survivor of Child Abuse Poem

Reverberating Recoil

Contemplative by Rainripple on deviantART

Pacing rattles my nerves.
Steps upon the floor--
Back and forth,
Up and down.
Heavily...
In my soul,
I sense a
Reverberating pound.

Unnerving me,
I shake within.
Unseen, unknown to those around.

I do not want to control,
Forcing others to compensate,
To quietly tiptoe,
Afraid to make a sound.

Yet, within the string tightens.
Each step plucks a shrilling chord.
Inward, I recoil.

Oh, how trauma preconditions me.
The tremors cannot be ignored.
Tense, I clench my jaw,
Hoping, waiting, breath.
Once again I endure.

He walked out and shut the door.

Finally, I release.
I sense relief.
Anxious - no more.

Solitary Confinement Poem

photo by eigrieves on DeviantART

Ghastly company-- I am to me

Solitary soul of gloom

Beating pulse flows through my veins.

Alone, yet, with the red blood moon.

Sensations approaching the cell door,

Creeping, silently upon the floor,

Dread and terror race to my brain,

Man-made walls make me insane.

Oh, forgive my wretched past,

Hope to drink from Grace’s glass,

Grinding metal grates the cage,

I can’t escape my judgment's page.

Read the Word He gave to me,

It's the only way for me to see,

Passed these wall that capture me,

To the horizon of tomorrows' seas.

Sexuality In Marriage After Abuse

It is true. Anyone who has been abused will struggle deeply with their sexuality. Often they will be hyper-sexual until the appropriate time of the sanctity of marriage... and then they will freeze. It is not like a person can turn on or off a switch to sexuality any differently than they can stop depression or anxiety. Sex after abuse take work in learning to trust and also to enjoy touch again.

by Lala-lizzy at Deviantart

It's time again,
The deep allure,
Of wanting more.

So I pretend,
That I am dead,
In my love's bed.

The creeping nudge
To like a tree
Give more of me.

Yet, in my head,
And numb body,
I fight to be.

The sweet response
To his caress -
I now undress.

His tender touch
And luscious kiss
Melts my resist.

To know my love,
And to be known
Is two alone - as one.

Child-rearing Without Instinct (by survivor of child abuse)

by red85 at deviantart

A worker with an empty chest.
A cook without a cup or spoons.
I labored to produce my best
Without the simplest of tools.

No wool to spin the wheel to yarn.
No song to soothe and heal.
I did all I knew to raise them up
And let the Potter spin His wheel.