Sleep sweet child, For day is done.
Rest your body
Before another
Is begun.
Calm your mind,
And enjoy your dreams.
Let all your worry
Cease and leave.
All your troubles
Be gone and done.
Close those eyes,
My sweet little one.
When with the morrow,
That sun does rise.
Raise your head,
And open your eyes.
Explore a world
So fresh, so new,
Explore the world.
It’s there for you.
I have been learning a lot about who I am and who I have been simply by talking to my twelve year old daughter. She sees things in a very straight forward way. She asks questions about life and especially about the parts of human nature that often confuses her. Her questions are occasionally embarrassing and often thought provoking. For years I fumbled through life because I was more worried about how people saw me or the way people would react to me to allow myself the freedom of being completely comfortable in my own skin. I kept my secrets; My religion, my sexuality, my survival to myself.
Part of the reason was because I was afraid. I spoke of my abuse. I was called a liar. I was told I was crazy. A heart can only handle so many blows before it closes itself off. Then as I grew older, I found that I cared less. I surrounded myself with supporters who didn’t care about those things which seemed so bad before. That helped.
I lost the innocence my daughter has too soon. I grew cynical because I needed a defense. I still clung to my desires to be a dreamer, even as I lived in a world made of nightmares. I used the ability to read to bury myself in places where the pain was not mine. I used the ability to write to speak with impunity my fear and struggle. After all, my poems didn’t have to be what I was. At twelve, I tried to run away from home for the second time. For my daughter, home is where she is certain of the fact that she is loved. I am proud of that fact. She still has many of the issues I had in dealing with her peers. She is very mature for her age, so she doesn’t understand conversation topics that amuse them. Also she has the same lack of filter I do. If it is on her mind, she speaks it. Yet for all that we are alike, her mind is far quicker than mine. She has a brilliant sense of humor and more self confidence than I ever did.
Those who know me know I am a very outspoken person. I try to be as honest as possible. Mostly because my memory is awful, i really would forget the lie. Easiest way to end up caught. There are topics I voice that I know make some uncomfortable. I refuse to be silenced because what I have to say makes any one feel bad. I was told I was lying when i first spoke my truth. Others suffered because of this. I was sexually abused. I was terrified of my abuser doing exactly what he threatened to do. So it took time after to speak. He told me no one would believe me. They proved him right. I was thirteen years old when I finally found the courage. So he was allowed to continue his life, and I was thought insane. He did to others what was done to me. They were heard and believed. He has been in jail for about six years now.
I speak now to take back my power.
I speak now because I believe the truth should be heard.
I speak now for those who may find comfort in my story.
I speak now because I survived.
I speak now because no one should feel insane for telling their story.
I speak now so that my abuser and those like him never win.
In a time of such marvelous inventions coming out, I am appalled by how many are designed to protect women from assault. Now don’t misunderstand. I am not saying women should be raped. I am not saying that the inventions are bad. I merely am appalled by the need for such items. I am a survivor. So I taught my children personal space and responsibility. I taught my son to respect women. I taught my daughter that her body is hers, and no one has the right to touch her without her permission. Yet, I know that there are people out there who would anyway. It kills me to know that someday she will not be safe. I am allowed the sadness that the world is not a safe place. I asked her what she would do if someone tried to grab her, tried to force her to do things against her will, and my beautiful twelve year old girl said ” I will kick him in the leg, then the nuts and I will scream! ” While crass, it feels good to know she won’t be a easy target. She doesn’t separate. If it’s someone she knows who tries to force her to do things or a stranger. Her body is hers. And I have made sure she knew it. I cannot help wondering if more children of both genders were taught that concept how the statistics of sexual assault and abuse would be? After all abusers seduce. They convince the child that even though the child is not comfortable with what is being done, that it is something the abuser is allowed to do. I mourn the need for the devices to “prevent ” sexual assault because I believe that if as children we are taught not to do or allow certain behavior… well as adults it wouldn’t happen. At least not as often. The ones who did at that point would be seen as deviants. They would then be treated as the criminals that they are.
I am a poet first and a writer second. I just do better with poetry than I do with stories. I am not bad at stories, just better with poems. Now there is a reason I state that. My daughter came home and was asking about poetry. She has no patience with writing stories. So I was helping her with her poetry for English class. At this point I was tickled to find out that she enjoys writing poetry. Mind you I have had three children. My eldest has written one beautiful poem. Then he allowed his own self doubt to keep him from writing. My middle one (who due to situations I refuse to explain here was given up for adoption at birth ) writes wonderful poetry. I am so tickled that the three of them have shown such talent. It actually got me thinking. What do we pass on in our genetics? My children are all taller than I. None of them look exactly like me. My daughter looks the closest. There is personality traits that all of them possess that I have. So that leaves me curious. What do you think we pass on in our genetics?
Each creative person goes through it. The crippling self doubt. One often expects encouragement from those in the life of said person. And it really doesn’t always happen. I’m not alone there. For me it’s just a baffling thing. I am seven time published. Four volumes of poetry, two children’s books and a novella. Still there are days when I wonder if my writing is any good. And since my family doesn’t seem to be proud of me and what I have done… it seems to wear on my confidence in what I do.
Then my bestie, my sister I chose, who is also a writer asked for my help. It doesn’t seem like much to a outsider I am sure… but for me this was huge. It felt like validation of my writing. My writing is such a big part of who I am… this felt like I was being accepted. So it got me thinking. Why does my family, my blood, not accept what I do? Really the only thing I can think of is that to them, since I have always been a writer, it is simply nothing new. So perhaps I am going to have to accept the idea that those who are not showing pride in me aren’t doing it in cruelty. Perhaps it is in ignorance.
So perhaps I should not expect the world to have faith in me, and be thankful when it does. Instead I should have faith in me.
Hmmm something I miss… cartoons. Saturday mornings with cereal and early morning cartoons. The cartoons of today really are subpar. I have tried to introduce my daughter to the cartoons of my childhood, but to be honest, it really saddens me that cartoons are no longer like that.
So. I am awake. It happens. And oddly enough when it does I manage to do some of my best writings. It’s like this is when my mind is clearest. When I fight with the demon known as insomnia. I already added two poems to my poetry W.i.p. and now I am going to ramble here. My thoughts are this….
Is social media truly being social? We have been asking this question as a society for a while now. These sites allow us to lie. To become people we wish we were. There is a serious issue there. Still it also allows us to communicate with people who are so very far away. It makes the world seem so much less. It allows family and friends who are far away to connect it ways that would be impossible otherwise… but that’s not always a good thing. I personally use it to promote my books and sell my crafts. I use it to keep in touch with those who I have known and love. For me…the recluse writer…yes it is social activity. However I am strange… what? Did you really not know that? Lol. What about you? What do you think? Is social media truly being social? I wonder for the non introverted people out there, if social media is something else? Perhaps it is tedious. If so do you only do them for your family? What is your reasons for being on them? Which do you use? There are so many choices.
It really is the little things that hurt…and heal. Seeing affection and pride felt by those whom you wish were proud of you. Or who paid enough attention to see who you really were. So I end up feeling the little green eyed monster creep in. And then I self recriminate because I see myself as better than that. I don’t do my writing or my crafts or my art for the recognition. I really don’t. I do all of it for me. However, the primal urge for recognition exists in everyone. Then along with the self doubt, a few someone’s stood up for me. It heals the little cracks in my soul.
Oh well… this is a tough one. I am an oddball. I really don’t dislike people overall… not any more. For me it is a case by case – moment to moment thing. So saying I dislike someone… well for me that means they are not family. Blood doesn’t always mean family.
Pattimouse 