You Want A Piece Of Me?


Let’s just get this out of the way first: I’m not a “Victim” and I hate that term. Instead, I prefer to be called a survivor.



My childhood was very eclectic and could be thought of as “perfect” in a lot of ways. Isn’t that the way it should be? I have wonderful adoptive parents and a biological mother that put my needs before her own. My entire family is wonderful and very dedicated to my health and safety.


     They had no way to know what would happen to me as a child
and preteen and I hold no one responsible for the actions of a few wayward souls
who seemed normal on the outside but harbored horrible secrets within

Obviously, these people were hurt too. Maybe they needed someone to step in and
protect them. Maybe there was no one willing to step in and they were left to deal
with “darkness” that took over completely and the promise of rehabilitation
disappeared leaving a broken shell of who and what these people were. We are leaving a
criminal grieving for forgiveness and reliving their own nightmares over and over as they examine their lives and pray for miracles.

I do not mean to sound supportive of the deviation or the actions of teens and adults who have endangered children or community. However, should we consider they never received support to stop this cycle?


It happens very often and with no warning, otherwise respectable men and women unexpectedly demonstrate their true and negative presence.

Dad and Mom were ministering to the community by visiting hospitals,
counseling congregants, leading worship services, preparing new services and
prayer meetings every week. My care was entrusted to persons who hid their
realities within the shadows of their Christian masks.

Last year I wrote a poem for entry in a contest. I missed the deadline… which is something I do quite often, unfortunately.

     I want to go ahead and share it here so you can understand a
little more about what’s happened to me. It’s not a plea for help but maybe

My friend, Di, once asked me why I was so angry all the time. Here’s my answer. I’d have shared this a long time ago but didn’t have the most vivid memories and nightmares until very recently.


Please consider the adult who can write this about her childhood nightmares:


Prayers Interrupted

prayed every night for a sister, a brother… another soul to accompany me in the
darkness and shadows where “They” hid in plain sight. Masked by the heavy air
of mal-intent and waiting for the Guardians to leave.

               The Guardians… absent… called to
higher duty.

was present, though…  my back pressed to
a wall in the tiny little corner of a rapidly darkening room… clinging to the
fleeting illumination, my eyes wide…


               “They” laughed.

               It was the deep chortle of an
angry spirit who waited to strike at innocence and draw blood. Always about
blood… life force, life exhausted.

was only a child and already educated in the master studies of an act meant to
be beautiful, yet sometimes contrary. My youth should have been at least some

wasn’t prepared.

wasn’t equipped.
     You wait until you’re ready. Everyone knows that! We keep safe those among us with no recourse. We shelter.

               We provide.

                              We encourage.

                                             Most of all, though, we wait.

“They” took that God given act of pleasure… that rite of passage. It was stolen
from me.

 It’s an act so sacred… designed to only to be shared once maturity arrives and you are free to enter into ultimate bliss with a gentle partner whom, above all else, wants the best for you.

This act of tenderness, protection, love… always love. Intended to bond a sacred
union where two become one.

Never rushed… never insisted… always respected.


There I stood… little girl on her tip toes back pressed against a wall and clinging
to that last tiny glimmer of luminescence… inching further away from the horror
of the darkness “They” somehow magnified.

“It’sssssss alright, girl.”

I begin to tremble and cry.

“Their” kisses hurt…. They slither and sting.

“They” bleed venom and salty tears.

How can “They” become more wicked than before? (Sunday School.)
And before? (Children’s church.)
And before? (Babysitter.)

And before? (Nursery.)

I peer out from the corner now shadowed… brace myself and hold my breath… praying again and forced to my knees… no, their knees…. No mine… I think. It’s too late

I forget.

There’s no intervention… no hand outstretched in love and defense… no means to stop the onslaught of corruption. It’s ok… it no longer matters.

Because I forget.

Isn’t that the best solution? Move forward and grow up slightly twisted and unsure. Mimicking the movements “They” choreographed and taught me… this dance is a sick waltz that a sheltered and frightened little girl could never understand.

I mirrored their evil… step by step…





Still a child and already versed in that which should be eagerly awaited…

Already terrified of that which should bring joy and complete longings I still don’t
know how to feel.

But, I’m left without waiting and not free to decide.

“They” taught me well.

“See girl? It’ssssss alright.”

That’s odd… its voice sounds familiar…

Like mine.

I can’t be sure, though, because I forget.

Awakened, The Guardians return… soft, gentle… the voices that sang me to sleep each night after I prayed.

These, my true caretakers, see the cracks left by “Them” and then patch me. The needle is rusty and the thread almost bare. The Guardians, now present, pick up the
pieces of my shattered childhood and return me to unconditional love and acceptance.

Faith restored.

 I’ll never be whole but I will endure…

Imprisoned in a viscous and vicious cycle that precludes healing in favor of silence.

The silence,
though well intended, did not heal me.
Their good deeds, punished me and masked
the memories necessary to fully wake up from this nightmare.Not girl, now woman.

That’s when the flood gates open and the tsunami of emotion nearly swallows me whole.

So, I pray again…

Because now I remember. 
That was then and this is now:
     So, how does a hurt and broken child replace the frown with a smile? How does the woman with Bipolar disorder learn to love herself and others? 
     Well, that’s why I’m here. Stick around and watch the roller coaster ride… it’s scary, thrilling, and a story worth repeating! 


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