Sometimes it hurts too much

Only the bullied know
What bullying is.
Those who inflict the pain
Have no perception
Of the harm they do.

I hid my pain at school
I lied when asked at home
Why my nose was bloody
My uniform torn again
Why my famous smile
Had disappeared.
I said I walked into doors
They chose to believe me
It was easier that way.

Now I can only watch
As one by one
Bright lights are extinguished
And hopes fall to dust.
I think to myself
But for being stubborn
That could have been me.

Dedicated to the memory of all those children who have found it unbearable

A new blog venture

Leaving The Grey Room is a new blog about surviving abuse in childhood.

I’ve joined forces with Micky at It’s Getting Better and together we hope to offer support to other survivors of childhood abuse. We’ll also be compiling a selection of links to helpful sites.

Over the years it’s become practice amongst certain professionals to break abuse down into components such as sexual abuse, mental abuse, physical abuse and so on. I prefer to take a more holistic view and call all these thing by one name; Abuse.

We’d really appreciate it if you’d visit this site, it’s very new so there isn’t much to see yet but perhaps you could bookmark it for later. If you have your own blog maybe you’d consider adding us to your Blogroll. Better still, maybe you’d use the small picture link, available on the blog, to link to us.

Leaving The Grey Room is all about reaching out to help others who have been through the experience of abuse, please help us to do that.

Sleeping through the thunderstorm

Every word is aimed at me.
Each one a tiny poison dart
Piercing my fragile armour,
Breaking through defences
That took so long to build.

They fall so easily,
Like my hopes

 

Names shouldn’t hurt like this,
Sticks and stones and all that shit
They do hurt.
They make me want to cry
But I can’t
I’m supposed to be a big boy now.

 

I want to be five again.
Wrapped up in my quilted fortress
Warm,
Protected,
Safe.
Sleeping through the thunderstorm.

 

Malcolm McLachlan – Aged 12 – 1965 – Never Submitted

Caveat Lector

You shouldn’t be reading this. I didn’t write these words for anyone else to see; this is not a diary. If you read any further you may not like what you see but that’s your problem; I didn’t invite you and this is your last warning.

CAVEAT LECTOR

I’m eleven and I’ve put up with things that nobody understands, that nobody seems to care about.

Does it matter to you that I’ve been molested?
Does it matter to you that this happens every Saturday?
Does it matter to you that I cry long into the night?
Does it matter to you that I wet my bed every night?
Does anything matter?

Can anyone hear me screaming?
Why can’t you hear me?

I want it to stop
But nobody cares
As long as my marks
Are the best in school
Nobody asks questions
Nobody notices
The tears
The anger
The pain

Boys will be boys
Is your explanation
I have to fight my own battles
But I can’t
I don’t know how to fight
I never learned
I didn’t have a teacher

Reflections

I posted this story on my main blog but I make no apologies for posting it here as well. While this is one of the shortest pieces I’ve written it says a great deal.

In a field, not far from our house there was a pond.

Actually it was a bomb crater which had been created when a plane was forced to jettison it’s payload during World War II; local wisdom was that it had been a Luftwaffe bomber.

We were under the strictest instructions to be careful around the pond because it was deep and, being a bomb crater had very steep sides. Being a non-swimmer and somewhat afraid of the water I always obeyed that rule.

When I was still only 10, on bad days when someone had made me do things that I didn’t want to; I used to kneel at the side of the water and just stare at my reflection for a while.

The boy I saw in the water was usually very sad and often had tears on his cheeks; I used to talk very quietly to him in an effort to cheer him up. Eventually I would leave and head back home with my best smile firmly in place.

Some nights, while I was waiting for sleep to come I used to wonder; was the boy in the water still weeping?

Campfire

orange and yellow
dancing
on happy faces
smoke brings tears
to unprotected eyes
innocent voices
raised in song
and laughter

fire is light
fire is warmth
fire is safety
fire keeps the wolves away
they prowl beyond the magic circle
smelling the prey
afraid to cross
the flickering boundary

but wolves are not the only predators

and not all predators fear the fire

Year unknown, somewhere in my teens

Lessons

When you’re being hunted you learn things, quickly

You learn not to live in the past

You learn not to dream of the future

You learn to live now alert to danger

You learn that if your ‘sixth sense’ tells you you’re being watched or followed then you probably are

You learn to jump at half seen movements amongst the trees

You learn to assume that a sudden noise has a human origin

You learn stealth

You learn secrecy

If you learn your lessons, really learn them well then sometimes good things happen

Coming in second in the boy’s cross-country on your last sports day at primary school because, startled by a twig-snap in a small wood you ran faster than you ever believed you could

Being hugged by your elated best friend, who only just beat you; while you knelt panting and retching at the finishing line

Being swept off your feet in an embrace from your delighted Mum who never dreamed that her little boy could run like that

Going home with your first ever sports trophy, a second place ribbon and getting an extra big hug at bedtime for doing so well

Best of all

Lying in bed whispering to yourself “he didn’t get me today”

Prayer

Dear God

Please don’t be cross with me because I’m not listening to the sermon, it’s really boring for us little ones and that’s why the Rector’s wife makes word games for us to do, so we don’t fidget.

I’m not doing a word game today because I need to ask you something, Mummy always says that you care about children and it says that you do in the Bible.

A big boy has been making me do things that I don’t like and I know that they’re wrong but he keeps making me promise not to tell anybody. I’m scared that if I do tell anybody he’ll hurt me.

I’m not asking you to kill him, God I know that’s not right.

I’m just asking you to help me be brave so that I can tell Mummy what’s happening. I know she’ll be cross and I might even get a spanking but after that she’ll do something to make the bad things stop.

I don’t understand why you let this happen, I know that you can see everything because you’re omniscient. I learned that word at school and Mummy was very pleased with me when I showed her I could spell it properly and tell her what it meant.

I think that you care about me because you didn’t make me die when I was really ill two years ago, you let me stay with Mummy.

Please help me, God I don’t know what to do. I’m only little and I’m not very brave.

I have to go now, God it’s time to sing another hymn.

Amen

Let’s be honest about this

Don’t be nice to me, that’s not what I’m here for.

I didn’t smile at you because I want you to be my friend, it was just my signal that it’s OK.

Make me bend over the toilet while you do it.

Let the shit-stained porcelain, the stench of stale piss and cheap disinfectant remind me what I am.

A dirty little queer boy who’s just here to be used.

Don’t say nice things to me,

Don’t tell me that I’m sweet.

Don’t tell me that I’m pretty.

Those aren’t things I want to hear.

Tell me that I’m dirty.

Tell me that I’m evil.

Swear as you force yourself into me if it makes you feel better.

Don’t bother making it good for me.

I don’t want to know your name and I’m not telling you mine, names have power.

Don’t worry, I won’t cry I don’t do that anymore.

Hurt me if you want to, it’s what I deserve but don’t go too far.

Please don’t kill me.

I don’t believe in life after death, heaven and hell or anything like that.

If I’m dead and weighed down by my parents’ carved granite token of love then I can’t be hurt any more.

I want to be hurt.

I need to be punished.

Why me?

Why did you make me touch you?
Why did you touch me?
Why do you want to see me naked?
Why do you make me do things that you know I don’t like?
Why did you choose me and not some other boy?

Why?

Answer me

It’s the least you owe me
One small shred of honesty
Might make the hurt a little less
Maybe I’d go to sleep without crying
If I only understood

Why Me?

I can’t remember when I wrote this, I was probably about 11 or 12 so 1964/65 is the best guess