Evidence? What?

No evidence. No crime. Good luck getting anyone to hear my story and act.

Emotional abuse is a pattern of behavior in which the perpetrator insults, humiliates, and generally instills fear in an individual to control them. The individual’s reality may become distorted as they internalize the abuse as their own failings.

Wrapped in Darkness

Sinewy tendrils

twine around the mind

and heart.

Throttling any goodness,

any light that

could dispel the dark

threatening to snuff

joy, happiness,

anything that

may elevate the

escape of those

whose lives are necessary

to displace feelings of

hatred, that a self

feels, but can’t

acknowledge.

That dark anger

fuels the lashes

at the spurned child, caught

in a web of unknowns.

Looking for love,

the unconditional kind,

and finding nothing,

except regret, anger,

hatred of a parent for

that child.

Look harder? You will

only find blame, humiliation,

and terror in a place that should

be filled with love. But

there was none to find.

Not here, there,

not anywhere.

The nowhere child searches

further for the elusivity of

love.

Conflict of Emotional Abuse

Emotional abuse is such a conflicting situation. It’s a thing that starts outside of yourself that, over time, wears down a sense of self, which becomes a sense of what others think. Then what others think becomes incorporated into what I thought of myself.

The conflict that comes with emotional abuse is that I knew what my parents told me and others about me weren’t true. But the daily barrage of abuse reinforcing their narrative became too much. And it always will become too much. I don’t care who you are or how strong your sense of self is; emotional abuse will wear you down.

There is Another Me

If it hadn’t been for my interactions with others, friends, parents, teachers, etc., who gave me an opposing view of myself, I wouldn’t be here. Everything my mother told me I was, they would tell me I was not.

They didn’t know (or they chose not to see – I think some of my teachers had their suspicions) what was happening; they told me kind things, as any teacher, adult, or friend would say. It was their words that resonated with me. Like something inside me knew that was the truth and what my parents told me at home was all lies.  

Therapy helped me rediscover my love of writing. It took me years of healing to get to where I am today. If you are struggling with anything, give therapy a try. 

I recommend Online-Therapy.* Encouraging therapy is their first step in healing.

Check out some of my other writings about alcoholism and sobriety. “The Slow Descent to Sobriety” starts my December series about addiction and my journey with sobriety.  You can also check out my recent poetry,  What Happened to All of My Words??

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