I have no proof, no evidence. Of course, I don’t because no one listened. And now that evidence is gone. Or is it? I realize how much evidence I have within me and how I react and interact with the world. This poem is about contending with all the evidence I carry with me.
What is this? Is a poem that came about as I wondered what it be like to be unbroken. To somehow go back in time before I was shattered.
This is a poem I wrote that I didn’t set out to write. I realized in a lot of survivors creative outlets (poems, writings, visual arts) darkness always represents depression. There is a reason for that.
I have been in prison. I didn’t make the prison, my abusers did, but I have kept myself in that prison long after either person has been in my life.
We all have roles in our families, the golden child, the hero, etc. I was none of those. I was the scapegoat. I was always held responsible for the ills of life but had no way of changing my fate or the fate of others.
My childhood instability stayed with me throughout adulthood. I built a better, more stable foundation once I realized I lived in an unstable house.
I have no idea how many people read my blog. It doesn’t matter. I write for myself, to heal, and if anything I write resonates or helps anyone else, that is the cherry on top of my writing sundae.
I originally wrote this in December 2020. Since then, I have found my community with the Ask A Sex Abuse Survivor group. And with this group, I was reminded of this post and decided to update and repost it here.
I was embarrassed with my self-talk. Or maybe I didn’t want anyone to know that I talked to myself—least of all, my mother. Even though she hadn’t identified me as the scapegoat, I still didn’t trust her.
There has always been that oppositional defiance within me that wants to keep poking at the things no one wants to discuss. Because I know that when terrible things are going on, and no one speaks about them, it gives leeway to abusers to continue.