Curious? Click here!
Enough
When I was small, my father worked overnights,
And would nap on the couch before work.
Once my mother woke him
I would crawl into the nest of blanket and pillow,
Caressing myself with his heat, making his smell
A part of my breath.
I felt safer there.
Safe from notice and rages.
Safe from ridicule while I
Sucked my finger and twisted my hair
My parent-hated self-soothing technique.
But was it enough?
I try to remember a time
When either of my parents snuggled me -
Not a hug or a kiss, but a lingering cuddle
Circled and surrounded by their warm acceptance
Their love, their bigness and strength.
I can remember a time
On their bed, on Valentine’s Day
My mother opening the silky heart box
exclaiming at the chocolates.
I remember how there were other hearts
Gifts from my father, in years I don’t remember
Hanging on the wardrobe doors.
We moved from that house when I was four
But I remember no arms around me.
My parents’ bigness was often unsafe.
Large furious faces screaming into mine
Hot coffee spoon on the back of my small soft hand
Hard big hands clenched into fists
Empty, or around the belt, a dowel, a stick –
And, once, a hammer.
Strong arms to wiled the weapon of
Revenge for childish misdeeds
To deliver the blows
A backhand slap across the face
When I was deemed disrespectful
To knock down, or drag me by hair…
Maybe I didn’t trust snuggles from those arms and hands
Those so-much-bigger-than me people
With the deep poisoned wounds
I could not see, but so often felt.
Or maybe I did see.
Maybe there were cuddles aplenty
Washed from my memory
By tears of betrayal and pain
As my own wounds grew deeper
Pus-festered into a monster
Greedy to inflict what it had suffered.
My security became something
Felt remotely.
The warm nest left behind,
The books where I escaped
Long solitary walks
Playing with clay
Smother-lavishing love
On our yard cats.
But it was not enough.
Not enough to keep me
Whole, unfractured
Able to feel safe and protected.
To be certain, sure, and strong
Of and within myself.
Now, snuggles are a part of
Every day.
Time to breathe each other in,
Soak each other up.
Laugh and cry
Together.
And as I cuddle these children
Grown tall and strong and tender
Who know all people make mistakes
And are forgetting punishment and shame.
Who linger, resting within my safe love
At ages when children often pull away,
The child I was sighs and knows
That, finally, at last -
It is enough.
I remember this photo being taken when I was three, but not snuggles…
It’s a Blog Hop!
Related articles
- Invisible? – OctPoWriMo, Oct. 5 (shanjeniah.com)
- Coffee-Flavored Conversation – OctPoWriMo, Oct. 3 (shanjeniah.com)
- October Evening, 7pm…OctPoWriMo #1 (shanjeniah.com)
- School Bus Paradox – OctPoWriMo, Oct. 2 (shanjeniah.com)
Very sad truth Shan. Sending you snuggles. X
Shah – Oh, I DO love sunggles! I get so many these days, and in so many ways.
It’s sad, but sadder that it is still happening to children.
Maybe, if I hadn’t lived the life I lived, my children would not be living the lives they are. If so, it’s well worth the trade-off.
And, the truth is that healing my relationship with Miah and Lise heals me, too…and that heals my marriage, and how I relate to everyone else….
As dangerous and damaging as abuse is, that is exactly how amazing and curative choosing to break that pattern is.
Every time you stop by, I smile. =D
As you said on FB, a very difficult poem, but a healing one. And the photo at the end is so sweet. My poem was not as brave.
Beth –
Thanks for stopping by.
Yes, it was a difficulty poem to write, and to share. But there is a terrible conspiracy of silence that surrounds childhoods by mine. My parents and two of three siblings have exerted a great deal of pressure and ridicule in an effort to keep my silent. I am meant to be ashamed for “making them look like monsters”, although I am certain not to use their names or gloss over the fact that they, too, were abused.
That needs to stop. If people could be open and honest about what they have lived, damage could be healed. Pretending that abuse is OK if it’s not every moment, or no one is visibly scarred, does not help.
I want to help, not to hide, nor to blame. I want there to be healing for everyone whose story resonates with mine.
Your last line – though….we are each where we are in life. I was brave when I wrote this poem – but there have been many times when I wasn’t brave. This was a step toward wholeness I needed to make just then.
The world has need of all types of honesty, I think. Yours no less than anyone else’s. =D
Again, thank you for your kind words.