Why Don't They Tell You?

I was just wondering why all those glossy parenting magazines never tell the truth of how piggin' difficult looking after and bringing up children actually is.

They don't tell you that you'll be cut up and/or torn and will have to pee sitting in a bath of cold water for weeks. They don't tell you how painful breast feeding can be or that you might end up being at it for hours on end. They don't tell how distressing for mum and dad sibling rivalry can be or how excruciatingly high pitched a childs whine can actually be. They don't tell you that not everyone is a natural mother and bonding and developing relationships with these vulnerable little ones can feel like an uphill struggle.

They only tell you about the joy and the love and the mystery and miracle of having kids.

I would of like to have known both sides - I would of still had my two beautiful babies but I might have been a bit more prepared for the reality and not so tangled up with the dream and the longing.

Explicit! If easily offended stop reading NOW!

This is a poem by my good cyber friend Prodigal Aspertions on her Dead Daddy site. I love it and hate it at one and the same time. It says everything and holds no punches. You have been warned.

DAUGHTERFUCKERS

Some men are just mean
daughterfuckers
pleased as punch to gouge out holes
where there should be none,
at least not yet.

And yet, for some reason,
Little Princess is expected
to burp politely, behind her hand,
never let the gas escape, (Cry Rape!)
“Oh, excuse me, so sorry!”

Do not become, my dear,
so destroyed in your soul
that you will spread your legs
and point, to that spot, (Crotch Rot!)
“Ouch, it hurts me.”

Young Ladies must cross their legs
at the ankles and tuck them, (Fuck Them!)
ever-so-politely to the side
better so to hide
the oozing pain that threatens to
puddle in plain sight.

Him, if you care to convict,
we will feed and water
and send to school
and give recreation, (Abomination!)
and release, fouler than any fart,
to fuck her again by proxy.

Just because he used the same parts
that make love to your darling,
and grow children for your garden,
does not make his act sex.
Talking about what he did is not
like ending prayers with “Shit”
instead of AMEN.

Oh
Hell
No!

The sacrilege has been done
by that dirty daughterfucker,
gentle nights sacrificed
on the altar of his prick.

So do not tell me I may not,
in polite company,
speak of rape
and incest
and pornography
and the thousand horrors visited
upon a thousand little girls (and
boys, them too,
scionfuckers making this
an equal opportunity tragedy)
don’t you dare.

I am not shutting up!

And upon the tiny vaginas
ripped open way too soon,
by the blood smeared sheets,
baptized with the tears of a thousand nights,
knife in hand if necessary,
to cut out the tongue
of anyone who dares
to silence her and her and all the hers (and
hims, I don’t forget)
I do solemnly swear
I will listen to the quiet words,
whispered into my ear,
as she faces the other way,
because she has been told
good girls don’t say those things (and
big boys don’t cry, now, Son)

So suck it up!

copyright 2006, 2007 by Cynthia Huddleston
All rights reserved.

Hurt - the Power of Names Revisited.

I feel hurt and angry and bewildered.

I had an email from a family member saying how upset they were about my recent post 'Abigail' now retitled as 'The Power of Names'. They asked me to remove the post because as the parents of the child that died they were upset at what I had said. I guess in some way they feel that the post was about their little girl but it wasn't.

The post is about my Abigail, the future possibility of my little girl, the future possibility of a damaged life redeemed and made whole.

I had carried this Abigail since I was 20 years old. She lived in my heart as a possible, as a maybe one day. I dreamed of her and all that she represented. You see if this child ever came to be it would mean that I had reached a safe place in my life, that I would have undergone healing and transformation, that I would be well and happy and safe and whole.

This blog was (is?)bout giving voice to the voiceless. It is about documenting a journey. It was (is?) about allowing the voice that was silenced through sexual, physical, emotional and spiritual abuse a place to speak, a space to be heard.

And now I once again feel someone reach out to silence me. Someone who does not understand the words or the need to speak. Someone whose own pain has made them unable to see what was really being said.

And the child within retreats to a dark corner too scared and scarred to allow her cries of anguish to be heard and misunderstood all over again.

I'm OK!

Things haven't been easy recently but I am holding it together and I am going on retreat next week!

Peter is nearly four and Ellie will be two in just a few days - they are both pushing boundaries and trying to do everything for themselves. Intellectually I know this is natural, normal and generally speaking, a good thing but Oh how exhausting!

The anger that raised its head recently continues to bubble under the surface but now that I am dealing with it and not trying to ignore it, it comes through less forcibly. I am still very tired but I think that goes with the territory!

Things are going OK and i am still sane!

Magazine Article

Leader's Insight: Shepherding the Sexually Abused
How the pain of childhood abuse affects pastoral relationships.
by Maggie Watson, guest columnist

Do you recognize the following congregants?

With unwavering commitment Emily is dedicated to you—and to your vision. Readily volunteering when needed, she prays for you and regularly affirms your leadership gift. Each time you speak with her, the admiration in her eyes is evident.

Samantha, on the other hand, volunteers only when asked. She is polite and friendly but rarely makes herself available for conversation. And as a result, little is known about her.

Chloe is a tougher read. You sense that she doesn't trust you. Yet, she continues to linger after the service asking question after question, or making appointments to ask you more

Read it here

The Power of Names.

At the beginning of my Blog enterprises I made the decision not to delete or edit anything I have written I stand by that but sometimes exceptions must me made.

Recently our extended family suffered the tragic and painful loss of a beautiful little child. I wrote about her on Pilgrim Blogs Progress.

This event has other resonances for me because of the name this angel carried.

Whilst we were expecting Peter we chatted to Abby’s parents about names. I mentioned that had Peter been a girl we would have named her Abigail. The name means ‘Joy of my father’ or ‘the fathers delight’. There is some discussion about the timing of this conversation but I remember the strong emotional reaction I had when I heard what their new baby was to be called.

We had a similar conversation with my sister in law at around the same time. Both of these families named their daughters ‘Abigail’ which meant that the name was forever lost to me. Though neither of these families said I couldn't use the name in the future there were pressures from elsewhere that made it obvious that this name would now be beyond my reach.

I have loved the name since it was given to a friend’s daughter many years ago. I was overwhelmed by the idea that any little girl could be so named because they were a delight to their daddy. I longed to be in a place where I could feel the joy of naming my own child by the delight in her fathers face. I was heartbroken when Ellie was born and we could no longer even consider the name for our beautiful baby girl.

I know names shouldn’t really matter so much but that name had held all the promise of a ‘Sharon’ made new and whole. Abigail's death was very recent but the tragedy of her loss also stirred up the emotional loss of my Abigail whom I had carried for many years and who died in my heart the year two beautiful Abigails entered our world and our families.

The name of Abigail had become an icon or symbol for a future that could be lived without the shadow of the past. Losing 'my Abigail' felt like losing any possibility of being free from the mire and the muck that clings so tightly that no amount of washing could ever remove it.

A Vat of Crap

I don’t know how a child survives abuse that entails everything but rape by her father and two of three brothers. I don’t know how I survived but I did but I am not whole and perhaps I never will be.

I thought all of this was over – I spent the 90’s in and out of therapy/counselling, I thought I had put it to bed, I thought it was over.

I met and married Mr Blog – probably the healthiest choice I ever made. In time we found we were expecting Peter and after some initial panics I got my head around this huge event. Then we were joined by Ellie and as time passed and I was not visited by the depressions and panics of the past, I stopped expecting them, stopped metaphorically looking over my shoulder and under the bed for the monsters that lurk there. I thought I was free.

I’m not sure what exactly it is that has triggered stuff this time round – and I am scared shitless at the depth and intensity of anger that must have been there for so long. I do know that somehow Peter manages to lift the lid on it and it is taking all my energy to prevent it spilling over on to him.

Idle Pilgrim wrote on her blog about anger strong enough to trash her dining room and I sometimes envy her for the luxury of being the only one around to be hurt by her own wrath. If I lose it like that I run the risk of damaging my husband and my children – it isn’t an option.

Legacy

Those of us who have suffered abuse at the hands of their fathers or other trusted male relatives carry within us a strange and painful legacy.

We find it hard to trust or we trust too much too soon.
We hold ourselves back or we give ourselves away to readily.
We are quiet and reticent or we are loud and brash.

We come in all shapes and sizes with all sorts of coping mechanisms and unhealthy addictions and pathologies.

We hook up with the wrong kind of guy or we resolutely stay single.
We eat, or smoke, or drink, or talk, or shop, or exercise or was and clean too much and we are nearly always afraid of the dark.

With us life is unpredictable or planned and routine to the max.

We have similar experiences, similar stories, but we are all different. We survived the only way we knew how and we carry the positive and negative effects of that survival for the rest of our lives.

We do not ask for pity, or sympathy or handouts.

We do ask for a sprinkle of understanding and a pinch of patience.

We do ask that we not be lumped together and dismissed.

We do ask that you try to hear us, even if the story is one you have heard a thousand times, it is unique to us.

Thank you.