Not Through My Eyes.

ImageToday I sent off a picture of the child I was to someone who is doing a collage of survivors. I didn’t think so much of it until I was staring at his face. Looking at the bruise on his forehead. Looking at the smile on his face that hid the horrors he had endured the night before.

He still smiled.

My therapist used to tell me often to take out a picture of myself when I was a child and to really look at the face and the innocence that’s there. I never really did it. I didn’t see the point. I didn’t believe what she was telling me.  She wanted me to look at him with my eyes and not my parents.

I couldn’t do it.

I hate that child. I agree with what he endured. I wish I could go back in time and push him down the stairs and tell him how much I hate him. Because I do. Some days I hate him so bad that I wish I could reach in and rip him out and throw him away.

I see him through my parent’s eyes. I see that he is unworthy. That he caused his parents to do the things they did to him. That he didn’t fit and wasn’t good enough to be part of anything, including his family. I don’t even see him as a child. I’d never hurt a real child, I’d never hate one, but him, I loathe.

He made his parents that way. They were not abusers until he came into their lives. It was his fault that they did things people would think as awful. Yet they were not awful people. They were good; they just got landed with a child that made them do bad things.

Today I looked at his face and saw him with my eyes.

It was one of the hardest things I have done.

Silence, hope

Silence, hope, it’s what I have

I’m waiting

Waiting for you to notice

Not the bruise upon my face

Or the way I feel dirty

Not the way I can’t look at you

Not the way I hate myself

I’m not waiting for food

I feel so sick

I’m not waiting for you to welcome me home

From my weekend in my prison



I wonder if you thought of me

If that morning you remembered

I wonder if you smiled for me

I woke that morning

But not alone

The broken dolls laid next to me

Dirty and torn just as I was

Waiting for the day to start

Waiting for it to hurt

The things we didn’t understand


I thought about you

I wondered if you remembered

If you’d come and get me

I didn’t even cry that day


I wondered if anyone knew

I waited

Did you go out and celebrate?

Did you think of me?

Did you laugh and smile with your family?

Or did you curse that day?


Now I’m 8.

Did you remember?

It was my birthday.