FACSA Foundation Virtual Expo
Launching At A Later Date
Art, Poetry, Dance
Please Leave Reviews In The Comment Section
Connie Lee
He's Watching
Mysterious nights went by, slowly unnumbered,
While her innocent body lay in an enchantingly deep slumber.
A monster in the dark lurked about
Conjuring up evil, so for her, there was no way out.
He cast his evil spell that fathomed her soul.
No one was she to tell, when from her innocence he stole.
There's nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
He's sneering, waiting, and watching.
Signs of the dawn suddenly appear
and the secrets of the night are profoundly made clear.
King of the giants, with all of their knowledge, could not for see
the woe, the pain, and the misery.
Poison still lingers in the air.
No need to worry, for he is still there.
He's sneering, waiting, and watching.
The sun begins to shine through the shadowy veil.
Time heals all wounds and life prevails.
The evil of the night no longer hoovers over her breast.
She can sleep without crying and fear is put to rest.
Her beauty is more captivating with each passing day,
Yet, taunting memories still creep in her way.
He's sneering, waiting, and watching.
Pulled out of dreamland by an overwhelming fright,
Make him stop! What's that sound? I’m scared! Who keeps lurking in the night?
Her trembling heart is silenced by the refuge that is near.
Was it a dream or is he still there?
Her conscience is seared!
She knows he is still there,
Sneering, waiting, and watching,
Somewhere!
BY: Connie Lee
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Susan Garren
A Child's Tears by Susan Garren
A Child’s Tears
Written by Susan Garren
I am a victim and I bleed. I am a victim and I cry. I am a victim and no one takes heed. I am a little girl who only wants a home. Why cannot I have a home that I can call my own. Adults are more impressed with power than with my needs. I am a victim of the courts. I am a victim of CSD. I am a victim of a Mother who keeps leaving me. How long must I suffer before they see?
I scream in terror and inflicted pain until I bleed. Afraid to sleep. Afraid to sleep for fear the sex dreams reappear. Many nights I ran in fear toward my new Mom and Dad who held me near. Why don’t they listen? Why won’t they hear?
Why am I different? I only want a home with a Mom and Dad I can call my own. Why can’t they let me be? The damage that has been done to me…you may not always see. Oh, please dear God, let them see what is happening to me. They seem so blind to my pain. Adults filled with their own self-importance. Why can’t they see?
I want to be loved. I want to feel safe and secure. Please God, give me my wish before it’s too late. I don’t want to learn to hate. I’m only a little girl. I want to know where am I going to live. Where is my home? Will I see my friends at school, or will they take me away again? Is anyone listening? Does anyone hear? How many times must I return to my new parents only to be taken again. Is anyone listening? Does anybody hear?
My birth parents were teens when I was born. They were too young to be parents. I sleep many places… moved too many times. I lose my belongings…no place to call home. My Dad is in jail. My Mom could not cope. Please Mommy, don’t hurt me this way. Many men I’ve called Father, some have gone. One returns, again and again.
I have a new baby brother. His father is different from mine. We have the same Mother. I fear she won’t take good care of him…just like me. Then where will he be? I want him to live with me. Why can’t my new Mom and Dad take my brother too? I cannot understand. I worry what will happen to him. He is just newborn you see.
I want a home like others…a Mom…a Dad…a place I know. I want to forget all of the rest. I’m tired of loosing my things. I never know if this will be home when I wake up from rest. How long must I wait before they decide that this is where I should always be?
I am so angry. I am tired, frustrated and sad. Why don’t they listen. Why can’t they hear. Why can’t they see what is happening here? Please let them listen. Please let them hear. I am tired of hurting all these long years. How much more must I suffer? How can I endure? Let my adults see a child is at stake. Please God, help them listen…let them make no mistake.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
John Harrison
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Tara C Laracuente
The stranger i knew. Original poem.
the stranger i knew
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Tara C. Laracuente
Our Little Secret. Original Poem by myself.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Janie Long Hunter
A Grown Up Kid
A Grown Up Kid
I look like a little girl to all who
see,
should be.
some dreams
But my life is not at all what it seems.
It's
not little girl parties where everyone goes,
I go to sleep my eyes
full of tears.
Nobody must know about all my fears
I'm searching for
love from anyone I see,
But no one’s around, there's only me
I'm
searching for help but none can be found.
I close my eyes and pray that
he's gone,
hide.
No matter what I do he seems
to stay.
I pray for someone to protect me at night.
I wish for someone
to just hold me tight.
I wish for friends,like all little
girls do,
But I'm left all alone in this room when he's through.
Will I
ever be like you want me to be,
Will I ever be someone that anybody
sees
I live in a world of constant fear,
I cry out in pain, but there's
no one to hear.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Carol Diane Tolbert
Conqueror
Carried a heavy load along a hard road.
Be assured God gave strength
Now compassion for fellow travelers comes easy
Could have chosen to be angry
That wouldn't have done any good
Now many look this way and know their path could get easier
My life is their inspiration to press on through
Head hangs low no longer
Feet drag the ground no more
The phrase, "Poor me, poor me!" has not been uttered in a while
The attire chosen to wear are not torn or stained
Inside victory is beginning to reflect outwardly
When you see my scars, please don't think, "Oh! poor woman.",
but rather, "That woman is a conqueror!"
I am here to say, "God gave all the strength for the road traveled.
Through Him 'I am more than a conqueror.' Praise the Lord!"
(Written by: Diane Tolbert (aka- Tolby Bear aka- Aunt D. aka- Grizzhoney Bear) on 07/14/09 at 6:00 am)
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Tamela Burckhardt
A poem
Innocents Shattered By Tamela Monroe- Burckhardt
Innocents shattered, life came crashing down
Still this world, just kept turning round
Spinning, and twirling
The pain kept whirling
Will this pain ever stop
Or am I just life’s cruel prop
Life moves on, I'm no longer that child
My life as a teen, proves to be quite wild
As a wild child, drug and drink
Can not cover the pain of the way I think
It sure can not protect me
From the pain and abuse dealt me
Time moves forward yet I still sat and cowered
From a new one that would gladly abuse, in abundance it was showered
Life came crashing down
With barely a whisper of sound
I wished myself dead
But I chose to live instead
I moved forward
I refused to be lowered
Life could be good
Be as it should
Now with all of my heart, I strive
Just to Thrive
19 GOING ON 8 ( 22 Feb 1995) Topic: Professional Abuse
I
wanted
you
to
love,
hold
touch,
care,
nurture,
fulfil,
me.
When
you
loved,
held,
touched
me
like
you
did
I
was
not
cared,
nurtured
or
fulfilled
because
I
was
19
going
on
8.
Ann-Marie Stapp 22 February 1995 (age 29)
This is why professionals listening to sexual abuse stories from a client shouldn’t sexualise the relationship.
Ann-Marie Stapp 9 March 2008 (age 42)
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Ann-Marie Stapp
Self Condemnation (31 August 1984 - age 18).
YOU
as insignificant
as you are
THINK you know the future.
YOU
have supposedly
Considered
ALL
the possibilities
BUT
you forget that only I
can account for
ALL
of them.
I
alone KNOW what
is going to happen
in your
innings.
When
are you going to
STOP
picking
worrying
and planning
and
START
trusting
MY
LOVE MY
SECURITY?
AM Stapp 31 August 1984 (age 18)
- And I learnt early to criticise/demean/destroy myself and be desperate to be understood. It is only this year I can self soothe with the mantra "trust yourself" and then action that by trusting myself.
8 Oct 2011 (age 46)
And at this point Ive met the counsellor/trainer/co-ordintaor of an agnecy to help rape/child abuse victims. This is how vulnerable I was to the exploitation that was to come.
2 January 2012 (age 46)
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Ann-Marie Stapp
SPIRIT ABUSED (22 Feb 1995): on the emotional responses of Rage Terror Shame
Woman.
I told you
about the explosion
as my head flew apart
when he entered me
and their was
no room for
my spirit to Stay.
BUT.
Woman.
How could you miss
the implosion
as my insides contracted
when you entered me
and their was
no room for
my spirit to move?
Woman.
Their was no difference
between the explosion or the implosion.
You both abused my spirit.
Ann-Marie Stapp 22 Februrary 1995 (age29)
On 27th July of 2007 I was rereading some of my writing. I realised then that my rage, shame, terror states had a pattern.
With the incest, the intrusions resulted in rage and the abandonment resulted in shame. Terror was the state in between.
With the professional incest it reversed, and abandonment triggered rage and intrusion bought on shame. Terror remained the state in between. The terror is the state of waiting for either intrusion and/or abandonment to occur. I also refer to this as the “no win” or the “double mind bind”.
Ann-Marie Stapp 9 March 2008 (age 42)
And of course this is further comment on professional abuse.
Ann-Marie Stapp 3 January 2012 (age 46)
http://ann-mariestapp.blogspot.com/2011/11/spirit-abused-22-feb-199...
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Ann-Marie Stapp
Staying or leaving (22 February 1995): on chosing to stay in therapy
Sitting on the floor
rainbow at my head.
Wrapped in a blanket
being cherished.
I remember the event(s).
I see flashes of him.. her.. her…him..
them, “it”.
Raping my body.
I tremble as my spirit re-enters
the body and
stays
for me to
experience
the terror
I could not feel then.
As we talk
I cannot look
because I have slipped into shame
(like suicide slips into the sea)
and feel my body’s pleasure
then tremble some more.
Fear scatters, leaving me undaunted.
Knowing I have a choice
to stay or leave.
Ann-Marie Stapp 22 February 1995 (age 29)
Here I am writing about a therapy session. Trying to find ways to give my life words to a witness. The hardest bit to deal with was my sexualised responses. I knew I had been sexualised to violence from the incest but through being professionally incested, I had become sexualised to gentleness. I was sexually responding in the therapy room. I chose to stay even though I had no words for it and have only just begun to articulate the worry of that for me.
Ann-Marie Stapp 9 March 2008 (age 42)
A difficult one to post today. Exposing. And adult themes. Many counsellors makes statements about "recovery being hard work". My response to that, "it’s not recovery when you never had it in the first place, it’s getting".
Ann-Marie Stapp 5 January 2012
http://ann-mariestapp.blogspot.com/2011/11/staying-or-leaving-22-fe...
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Ann-Marie Stapp
Who is the victim? (July 1985: age 19)
Is it me that's really suffering
or is it my pride?
I don’t really understand
why the pain remains inside?
I’ve had months of counselling
to relieve some of the pain.
Now I try not to think about it
but thoughts still dwell – yet again.
I wonder if he feels guilty
for the crime that he has done
or if he chooses to forget
- considers it harmless fun?
He has said that he has sorry
he has asked for my forgiveness,
by mouth says he has it
but I still feel guilty – useless.
Useless and scared to reach out in life
in fear the pain wont go.
I want to be free to understand
but how on earth would he know?
I want so much to tell the world
to yell and scream the detail
but it really pulls my inside out
to share and I fear that I will fail.
I know that I was a little girl
I didn’t know what it meant.
My head says “It’s not your fault”
but my heart says different.
As I begin to understand
what it was that happened to me
I start to wonder who the victim is
is it I – or is it he???
I’ve made the choice to work it through
a lot more that he has done
but I fear the awful fact
that I am not the only one.
In a sense I have been set free,
from a lot of the pain,
and I know that I can now help
many others love again.
The purpose behind this writing
is to help me to know
and understand the feelings I have
and now I’m challenged and ready to go…
To go and get on with living
the best that I can,
accepting what my past has been
and all that I am.
AM Stapp (age 19) Fri 12 July 1985 8.05pm Wellington Railway Station
Written while contemplating suicide by train. Final operation on leg in Feb 1985. Finished volunteer training. Transferred to another city for work in June. Enrolled at Wellington Polytech for block course to make up for missing 1984 Computer Programming training. Finished counselling with Hospital Social Worker. Continuing trips to Blenheim for follow up volunteer training and connection with the volunteer agency counsellor.
Ann-Marie Stapp 2007 (age 42)
And even at 19, I was thinking about the bigger picture of the layers of no winners when abuse occurs.
Ann-Marie Stapp 13 October 2011 (age 46)
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Ann-Marie Stapp
My body knows (22 February 1995 age 29): On body memory
In a moment of disbelief
I am reminded by a body
that has not forgotten
and will not forget.
A picture reminds me where my
arms are pinned
and the morning begins
with two shoulders screaming like
they want to be put
back into their sockets.
The excema I was born with returns
to my breasts, face, upper arms
and the first time in my pubic hair
as my vagina releases an unnamed infection that is
white, creamy, thick, repugnant.
My stomach twitches as I wash
and clean it and try to
ignore the memory
and want to vomit.
The 22cm scar on the leg from the
6th motorcycle accident gleams
as yet another unwanted reminder.
My throat and chest clog
as I can no longer breathe.
My hear pounds so loud and fast
I hyperventilate and faint.
My back injury flares up – the one everyone thought I got from accident one, where I whiplashed my neck and hurt my shoulder blade.
The one that the osteo reckons the injury happened around age 9.
I reckon try 10, standard 4, when I couldn’t do
my speciality sporting event because I couldn’t high
jump the night before.
The throbbing penetrating pain going through
the back of my head knows
the position of his hands
holding my mouth to his.
My body holds heaps of little burn size scars
that bear testimony to digging of my flesh.
My hands wear tiny little marks
from tiny little pins embedded in my skin.
The poison comes out of my
body with herpes on my skin
as I remember that no-one notices
that we get cold sores at the same time.
Evidence of STD at age 20.
Transmitted only by a man.
Genital warts, dysplasic cervix
says of unwanted invasions.
My nose recalls the smell of urine placed in the bottle of
shampoo for my turn next in the bath.
The blisters on the tip of my fingers when I lift them off the element
remind me of what it is to be 4
and curious and get your fingers burnt.
My mind can switch off.
My spirit can take off.
But my body knows every inch
of every place that has been hurt.
My body knows.
Ann-Marie Stapp 22 February 1995 (age 29)
Yep. The body remembers. And the Mulitiple Sclerosis, sometimes those symptoms mimic the body memory of the abuse and then its a double layer to deal with. Sucks.
Ann-Marie Stapp 7 January 2012 (age 46)
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Dehlia Miller
Sadness (written January 2010)
Driving down the road,
hear an old song on the radio.
Waves of sadness wash over me,
at what my life was then,
and what could’ve been.
Waves of sadness grip my mind
and take me back in time
to the incredible sadness then
and what should’ve been
the life of a little girl.
I grew up too fast,
felt like happiness would never last.
Took in the pain caused by others
and hurt myself to feel alive,
to express the hurt I felt inside.
Held it all in my mind.
Could I stop it in time?
Before I went too far
and ended my life.
I tried so many times,
nobody even knew.
I remember all the days,
all the ways.
God must have known
that he had plans for me.
He kept me alive,
he never let me die.
And here I sit, sad, thinking about my past.
Will any happiness ever last?
Can I ever forget what was done to me?
Can I ever be free?
Will these feelings ever go away?
Feelings of hurt, betrayal, anger,
mistrust and the ever present sadness.
Why didn’t I change it then?
Why didn’t I stop him?
Would I be who I am
if it didn’t all happen then?
Why me? Why me? I cry out.
God answers me,I know it’s him,
without a doubt.
He says “My child, so you can help them.
Just trust me and take my hand.
I will lead you on your path.”
Some know that I understand,
they trust me,they take my hand.
But I want to take it away,
all their pain and hurt.
I have to remember only God can do that.
And God will help me with mine,
it just takes time.
So I get down on my knees
and I pray please.
Please God, help me with this,
this incredible sadness
that just keeps coming back.
God take it away and replace it with your joy, love, peace and happiness.
God I want to live for you.
Make my spirit fresh and anew.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Dehlia Miller
Mirror (written in August 2011)
I look in the mirror,
I swear it's not me.
In my head, that's not who I see.
But then again can I trust my head?
After all, it's the one that wants me dead
or maybe that's my heart it's tired of being torn apart.
I sit and wonder, trying to figure it out.
It makes me crazy, makes me want to shout.
I stare into my own eyes
wondering how I even got this awful disguise.
They fill with tears
as I think about all the years.
But even the tears don't make me see myself
as I look in the mirror.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________-Dehlia Miller
- Standing on the edge (written June 2011)
-
Standing on the edge
-
Looking at the darkness below
-
Thinking about my life
-
Feeling so low.
-
I really wanna jump, -
make it all go away
-
jump into the nothingness
-
forget it all today.
-
My head is spinning -
seems so clouded sometimes.
-
How did I get so lost?
-
Lost in all this pain
-
I look in the mirror everyday -
I hate who I see.
-
I don’t even know that person
-
I don’t believe that it’s me.
-
Feel with my foot -
I really can’t see
-
It’s so dark down there
-
Is that really where I wanna be?
-
Think of my baby -
My little boy
-
Sleeping at home
-
Somedays he’s my only joy.
-
I can’t do this to him -
I can’t leave this way.
-
I turn to go really
-
not ready to face another day.
-
-
Another day of feeling alone -
Even when I’m with a crowd
-
Another day of memories
-
Sometimes my thoughts are just too loud.
-
But I go home -
and eventually drift off to sleep
-
My body is so tired
-
I’m really beat
-
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Dehlia Miller
Lost Spirit (written as a teenager)
Her world is spinning out of control,
she feels so helpless,
so powerless to stop anything.
A little of her spirit is lost.
She hears the insults meant for her
but she can't stop them
so she lets them settle into her brain.
A little of her spirit is lost.
Accusations made against her,
she tries to protest but her words
are lost in the yelling of another.
A little of her spirit is lost.
A crying baby,
she changes its diaper, gets its bottle.
Her mind is only half awake.
A little of her spirit is lost.
Rocking back and forth,
someone downstairs starts the yelling again,
tears start to slide down her face.
A little of her spirit is lost.
Food cooking on the stove,
the sight of it makes her stomach churn,
she can't even taste it anymore.
A little of her spirit is lost.
Work to do, all for others,
she goes through the routines,
her body knows what to do.
A little of her spirit is lost.
So much homework,so much done already,
stories to read and stories to write,
she can't do it all in one night.
A little of her spirit is lost.
Her eyes are getting heavy,
she slips into bed at two am.
She thinks of all the things that didn't get done.
A little of her spirit is lost.
Her head is throbbing,she's so tired.
Her body shakes with sobs
as she realizes depression has set in.
Her spirit is lost.
____________________________________________________________________________
Summer Hawk
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Summer Hawk- LOST INNOCENCE
BATHED IN THE LIGHT OF INNOCENCE
SHE STANDS ON THE BREATH OF HOPE
TO BE TOUCHED
IN LOVE IS ALL SHE CRAVES
BUT AS NIGHT CLOSES IN ...
DARKNESS SWEEPS INTO HER SOUL
FOREBODING FOOTFALLS DRAW EVER CLOSER
HE STOMACH BEGINS TO CHURN
IN THE AGONY OF WHAT WILL FOLLOW
THE LIGHT CREEPS ACROSS HER ROOM
FOLLOWED BY THE SICKLY SWEET SMELL OF HIM
HE ROBS HER OF HER INNOCENCE TIME N AGAIN
HER SILENT SCREAMS ECHO THROUGH HER MIND
WITHDRAWING INTO HERSELF
TERRIFIED TO UTTER A SOUND
AS TO BRING ON HIS WRATH
WOULD ONLY PROVOKE MORE PAIN
ONCE HE HAS HAD HIS FILL OF HER
HE LEAVES TAKING THE LIGHT WITH HIM
SILENTLY SHAKING
BROKEN AND ALONE SHE WEEPS
WONDERING WHY SHE MUST ENDURE HIS "LOVE"
SHE LONGS FOR THE FREEDOM
TO LAUGH
TO PLAY
TO LIVE
IF ONLY SHE COULD THE COURAGE TO SPEAK
WHO COULD SHE TURN TO?
WHO COULD SHE TRUST?
WHO WOULD BELIEVE?
HER MIND REELS
AS SHE DRIFTS TO DREAM
KNOWING
THERE MUST BE MORE TO LIFE
THAN THIS
~♥SummerHawk♥~
EVERY CHILD DESERVES LOVE EVERY CHILD DESERVES THE CHANCE TO LIVE WITHOUT FEAR FOR EVERY CHILD IS SACRED ~♥HUGZZZZZZZZnLUVZZZZZZZ♥~
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Art By Rae Luskin
PAIN
Sexual Assault
Inner Demons
Pain
Keening Lost Innocence
Healing
Love Thyself
LLAMA
Reflection
Young-Child
Lead With Your Heart, a wonderful art book for any ages to lead students in creative self discovery and working through the pain to healing!
Rae Luskin
Art and Soul Connections
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Michal Madison
Art by Michal Madison
Broken Heart
Just A Baby
WHY?
Secrets
Stop The Abuse
Thoughtful
Journey
WOW
IMAGINE
BANDAID
TRUST
SHE TRUSTS YOU
BLACK NIGHT
INNOCENCE
ERIN'S LAW
ENOUGH
ARICA
ROSE
Tears
Bruised
Absolutely Not
Escaping The Chaos
___________________________________________
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Michal Madison
in my beginning...
my parents didn't look like pediphiles & sexual molesters. upper middle class...they both had great jobs ~ my dad was the business manager of two successful coorperations. my mom stopped working at a job she loved, a few weeks before i was born, to be a stay-at-home mom. they were friendly, energetic, well liked, charismatic leaders in both the community & church (still are). it all looked perfect on the outside...but only a few months after i was born, they began sexually abusing me.
but really, what does a pediphile/sexual molestor look like? i was always taught that they sneak around schools & play grounds, look creepy & was taught not to talk to these strangers because they might hurt you. well, the people hurting me, turning love & affection into sexual abuse...using me as a sex toy for their own pleasure...were the people who meant the most to me in the whole world! the people i loved & trusted to take care of me!
since the abuse started when i was a tiny infant i never had a moment where i knew this was me & that i you. i was just an extension of them. if they wanted what i had ~ me ~ they took it. i never knew what a boundary was. that lack of boundaries affected my life profoundly...
it was on a business trip, in the back of the company van that i was first raped at age four. i clearly remember the shiney silver door handles & how the light came through the windows & that my head was hitting the back door, but i don't remember much else because by four i'd mastered the skill of dissociating & separating from my body. when he was done i was leaning against the van wall hugging my knees to my chest, not wanting to move. but he was hungry & took me by the arm, removing me from the van. we sat across from one another & ate pancakes. later that day. i sat on the edge of the front seat (pre-seat-belt-laws) & talked to my dad about whatever. a girl needs her dad & at four i wasn't able to grasp the gravity of what had been happening all my life. i talked a mile a minute, like only a four year old can. he was listening to npr & watching the road. maybe it was when he adjusted the dial on the radio or turned up the volume, but i realized that he wasn't hearing or listening to anything i said. i leaned back against the seat. devastated. the abuse continued for years. i remember when he came in the room, i think it was the last time, i was 15. he came in to teach me "how to be a good wife". i remember it in a dreamlike way. not really wanting to be awake ~ not able to sleep through it either, yet hoping it wasn't happenning.
their abuse didn't stop just because they stopped sexually touching me. as an adult, it seemed every time i came home to visit & would be taking a bath, my mom would find some reason she had to come into the bathroom, now! she always commented about my body, which creeped me out. what further disgusted me was that i knew she was going to tell my dad! a few years ago we were all shopping in macy's & my mom tells me "dad just said, 'wouldn't michal look great in that negligee.'" my dad was standing there, along with others & i was so humiliated i wanted the tiles in the floor to open up & swallow me. they acted like this was nothing out of the ordinary & i guess for them it wasn't!
we were constantly told by our parents what a great family we had. how lucky we were to be part of this family & how perfect our father was. mom compared him to a saint or an angel often! it's crazy making when you're being told one thing by everyone outside & inside your home, but in your soul there is another truth that remains unheard.
the last time i'd visited my family, i'd noticed that my niece was showing signs of abuse & not being her usual self ~ running out of the bathroom screaming, if my mom was in there ~ she also started peeing her pants again at three years old, & she wouldn't sleep without the nightlight on & her sibling in the room, still she was having nightmares that she'd wake up crying & screaming from! because i didn't want my niece to suffer from a life of abuse at my parent's hands. i found the strength & courage to tell my sister what had happened to me as a child & my concerns about about her daughter.suddenly everything changed. reputation was more important than a child's safety! she never spoke to me again & i haven't seen her children since! when i confronted my parents, a few weeks later, they completely denied everything ~ saying i had a contrived, manipulated imagination! i lost my entire family in a matter of weeks. it's important to stand for the truth & to speak up, even if you stand alone!
while i think this road to healing may be a lifelong journey, i'm grateful to be on the road & no longer in the ditch somewhere... i am healing! art has helped me through all of events in my life...to stay grounded. it helped me find my voice! now i hope my art will help others find their voice & that it brings awareness to the horrific crimes of child abuse & sexual assault! maybe i couldn't save my niece. someday i hope she knows i tried! but i will do everything i can to help other children not have to live through the trauma that i did. it affected everything i did! every decision i made or didn't make.
remember your braver than you think & stronger than you appear!
light & love for continued healing! michal madison
Michal Madison watercolor artist helping to stop child abuse.
About Michal
follow erin's law on facebook i'm painting to make a difference! painting for peace!
https://www.facebook.com/#!/michalmadison
________________________________________________
Off the Beaten Path: Violence, Women, & Art online exhibition. View here!
Art Works for Change produces traveling contemporary art exhibitions that address social and environmental issues. It applies the transformative power of art to promote awareness, inspire action and provoke dialogue. The exhibitions serve as catalyst and crucible where artists, museums, advocacy organizations, and the local community can unite in common cause. Off the Beaten Path: Violence, Women and Art is an art exhibition created to address the basic human rights of women and girls to a safe and secure life. The exhibitions has traveled globally since 2009. Tour the exhibition virtually at: http://www.artworksforchange.org/otbp_virtual.htm
Gabriela Morawetz, Poland
J’ai reve que… (I have dreamed that…), from The Sleeping Self series
2008-2009
Photographic transfer, emulsion and wax on canvas
The bed is supposed to be a place of dreams, a comfort zone where one goes to rest the body and mind. But for some, it is a place where the body is violated, trust destroyed. The beds in Morawetz’s Sleeping Self series have accumulated mysterious objects, transforming them. A mattress is piled high with bubbles or fragile glass balls. A figure is entombed in filaments of light, or are they brightly lit nails? As in a dream, these images are removed from any particular time and place. Sometimes the figure is missing altogether, leaving the viewer wondering what has happened to the vulnerable sleeper.
Surveys have revealed that one in every three women has experienced abuse during her lifetime. Some girls’ first experiences of sexual intercourse are coerced or violent, often with a member of the immediate family. When a family member is the offender, it can be difficult for the survivor to talk about or comprehend it. If the family is dependent on the offender, either financially or emotionally, the victim will often not disclose, taking on responsibility for the whole family at the expense of her own safety, well-being and mental health. Once incest is disclosed, responses vary from acceptance and support to disbelief, denial, shame, grief, anger and disgust. A survivor may feel responsible for disruption in the family.
________________________________________________
|
|
I’m Telling
By Donna Jenson
March 2012
My father told me, after every rape, “You tell anyone and I’ll kill you.” For a long time it worked. And then it didn’t. The progression of my telling began with a tearful whispered confession to a close and trusted friend twenty years after the abuse ended. Within a decade it had morphed into a telling that was like a dark woolen cloak I wore everywhere. I found myself telling almost anyone, anywhere, something to the tune of, ‘Hi, my name is Donna and I’m an incest survivor’.
Eventually my voyage from the maze of silence to the wide-open freedom of voice got me to transform my experience into a work of art. I took my muddy, stinky, slimy mountain of pain and confusion and turned it into a bold, sparkling offering of my evolution and clarity. I’ve written a one-woman play about surviving incest and my journey toward wholeness. Not only did I write it – I’m performing it every chance I get. I’m telling like crazy. And boy oh boy does it feel good.
Once I decided to tell, by writing a play, words began flowing out of my pen like a mountain creek at the break of spring – fast and fresh. Some mornings I’d wake up an hour earlier than usual- no alarm clock, just my itchy fingers stirring me.
It took me seven years to complete. Through this long creative process it helped tremendously to have supportive people around to tell me that what I was doing was brave, smart and needed. But all the well wishes in the world can’t eliminate all the fears. As fears emerged I wrote them out in my journal, like this one:
Once I get it all written and blocked and rehearsed then one of two things is going to happen. Either no one will show up or plenty will and none of them will be moved. They’ll leave the performance, heads slanted into each other talking about how they hope I didn’t quit my day job.
After the play was written I decided I wanted musical accompaniment. I found a remarkable master guitarist, John Sheldon. The soundtrack he wrote and performs with me weaves the play together with atmospheric sounds, bluesy tuneful melodies and his two powerful original songs, “A Way Through” and “It Wasn’t Your Fault” open and close the play
To begin and guide this journey of creation I wrote out my vision for the play in my journal before I actually started writing it:
I see the play describing some of the pivotal moments that got me going. I want to tell the audience about the things that took a long time and a lot of work to get me through all my pieces of the healing. I want to be funny and make people laugh. I want to be poignant and make people cry. I want to be inspiring and make people brave. Brave enough to speak – even if the only one they are speaking to is themselves.
I want them to consider the possibility that everyone can do something to break the silence and end the cycle of violence. I want to pick the right stories of my journey and string them together in just the right way so the audience will be uplifted by this subject instead of disturbed, or worse, more numb than when they came in the door.
I want to tell my story of surviving incest. I want the context to be more about my resurrection then his crimes. Tell all I’ve done to become my fullest self not just what he did to hurt me: to focus less on his destruction and more on my triumph.
I entitled the play What She Knows: One Woman’s Way Through Incest. I’ve been performing it since 2008 at conferences, colleges, community groups, a girls maximum security prison, and a residential school for boys, ages twenty down to eight years old who are juvenile sex offenders. Every time I perform it I heal a little bit more. The silence is breaking apart and my creation is weaving my spirit back together.
For more information go to www.timetotell.org
To book a performance e-mail djenson@crocker.com
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Rape – By Samantha Nelson – Copyright © 1999
Which one do I describe?
There were two. Two terrible times.
Do I describe both?
The pain and the shame each time?
It was cold and raining.
We were on a dark country road.
There were two of them and me.
Friends, going for a drive.
The car stops, and Billy gets out.
David starts touching me and undressing me.
I fight, but it’s no use.
I can’t seem to move.
He’s mean and cruel and rude.
He hurts me. I don’t know what he’s doing.
What is he doing? Is this sex?
I’ve never had it before, this is the first time.
He’s mad I’m not more cooperative.
He finishes and gets out of the car.
Billy gets in. He sees the pain on my face.
He’s to start it too, but he doesn’t.
He tells David to get back in.
David says to leave me.
Alone, in a puddle, on a dark country road.
I beg them to take me home. They give in.
Sore, hurt, ashamed and humiliated.
What happened to me? I’m 16.
I cannot tell. There’s no one to tell.
I’m not supposed to ride with any boys.
----------------------------------------------------
Time goes by, though not much I think.
A week or two, or maybe three?
An invitation to a party.
That should be fun, maybe.
Far from town, out in the woods,
Parents gone and home alone.
A party starts with three of them.
When I arrive I am the one.
How was I to know the party was me?
That no one else was coming, no one to save me?
Alcohol and music loud,
A dance or two they plead.
Some say I’m stupid, I don’t know.
Naïve, I think at worst.
Trusting in others with all my heart,
Not knowing their evil intent.
I drink a little, I’m too scared.
The party is no fun.
The dancing stops and one by one
They surround me in the room.
Come on, they say, let’s have some fun.
No, I really don’t think I should.
I should go now, really I should.
But let me go they won’t.
It is no fun – the three of them and me.
I struggle and plead and say no I don’t want to.
They say someone else liked it.
I don’t care, I don’t.
They won’t let me go.
They keep tugging and pulling on me.
A little tight? Grab the Vaseline.
That will make it right.
No, no, I say. I can’t believe it.
Why is this happening to me?
I’m not made to be this way.
Why is this they cannot see?
One, then the other, then the other.
No, I plead. Please stop.
They call it fun and one by one
They have their way with me.
I think it will stop, soon I hope.
But no, they are not through.
They all want to be inside of me.
And all at the same time, too.
How can this be? It is not possible.
My body cannot take it.
One in my mouth, the other there,
The third in a place I cannot tell.
I choke, I cry, I ask them why.
So-and-so likes it, you will too.
No, I don’t. Please stop it now.
No, we’ll just try another way.
On the bed, then in a chair.
They push and pull and drag.
Somehow they do it, I don’t believe it.
Finally they stop, I guess they’re through.
Come on, I’ll take you home.
That’s very kind of you.
No one to tell the story to,
No one to help me with the pain.
I hurt, I ache, I am ashamed.
Then the pain begins.
In school I double over.
Too much pain to bear.
No one knows what’s wrong.
My mom, she doesn’t care.
Bleeding, bleeding everywhere.
And I’ve hardly had a period.
My periods stopped when the weight came off.
I am only 75 pounds.
Pregnant? No. I never was.
Just destroyed inside myself.
A ruined life, no chance for more.
Children I can’t have.
Since the age of 16 I have known,
This is the life I have.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Comment
© 2013 Created by FACSA Foundation.
You need to be a member of FACSA Foundation Virtual Expo to add comments!
Join FACSA Foundation Virtual Expo