Scog's Tale

Why Don't They Tell You?

2008-01-09T13:44:00.000Z

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!

2007-08-29T13:47:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-05-22T11:53:00.000+01:00

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!

2007-05-01T11:09:00.000+01:00

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

2007-04-25T16:38:00.000+01:00

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.

2007-04-23T13:11:00.000+01:00

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

2007-04-23T13:06:00.000+01:00

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

2006-09-29T09:43:00.000+01:00

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.

Poem #4

2006-08-02T10:43:00.000+01:00

Little Girl

In her hands
She holds the key
From shadowy realms
She call to me.

She has the answers to the questions
That I'm afraid to ask
She knows the person I hide
Behind the mask.

She used to be so silent
Hidden in the depths
Now her screams
Haunt my dreams
Yet I refuse to hear.

A little girl with golden hair
A little girl with her painful stare
A little girl who holds the key
To the person who is me.

To Tell or not to Tell.

2006-08-02T10:22:00.000+01:00

A while ago I read somewhere that it is essential for the person to tell all that has happened to him/her in order to heal. I was horriied.

Firstly it is not necessary for a survivor to tell in explicit detail any part of what has been done to them for healing to take place. For some it is more important to concentrate on the feelings and emotions not the acts themselves. For others telling in broad strokes the nature of what they have suffered is enough. Some may need to go over the events in great detail. For some a mixture of approaches will work best. All these ways of healing are good and valid.

Secondly no-one should be forced to talk in detail about their experiences - this is abuse. It gives the green light to those who get a kick out of hearing this kind of stuff to put pressure on those who need help. Talking in detail against ones will is akin to being abused all over again. Those who have testified in court will understand what I mean.

What is important for a person to heal from abuse is someone who is willing to listen to the said and the unsaid. Someone who will come alongside and gently support while the person finds a way through the darkness. Someone who will not judge you but gently and insistantly whisper 'It was not your fault'.

Please - if someone reveals to you that something happened to them as a child - be ready to listen and go at their pace. Do not judge. Be gentle.

Foundations

2006-07-27T09:13:00.000+01:00

What are your foundations built on? Who laid your foundation stone?

For many of us it is our parents that lay down the groundwork on which we build our lives. If our parents weren't too screwed up themselves and were up to the job most of these stones will provide good foundations. Things like knowing right from wrong, respect for authority, belief in ourelves.

Sadly for some of us our parents were not able to provide such solid foundations and in some cases they may have deliberatly used shoddy materials. Abuse whether it is physical, sexual, mental or emotional can leave us adrift on ever changing foundations. Just as we figure out how the world works we find the foundation stone is faulty and what we thought we knew turns out not to be true or reliable.

We have to re-lay our foundations, perhaps through counselling or the love of faithful friends and partners. Sometimes we need help to realise that the way we look at the world isn't the way most people see it. As a Christian I have tried, and often failed, to replace my dodgy foundations with the foundation stone that is the triune God.

God never changes and His foundations are true and solid. He can be relied on, even in the darkest times. Thanks be to God!

One Day At A Time

2006-07-19T11:17:00.000+01:00

Poem #3 really is an end of the line type poem. It was during one of my darkest times and I had no desire to continue my existence but could see no way out. I would go to sleep hoping that i just would not wake up again. Of course, I always did.

There was no joy and I was scared to cry in case I found that I could never stop.

Poem #3

2006-07-19T10:54:00.000+01:00

So Hard.

Life, so hard to live
Love, so hard to give
Tears, so hard to cry
Death, so hard to die.

Me, so small inside
I've nowhere to hide
Life, so hard to live
I've got nothing to give.

Dreams, all unfulfilled
Hopes, have all been killed
Fears an unending stream
Anger, a silent scream.

May 1993.

Walls.

2006-07-19T10:36:00.000+01:00

Poem #2 is the other side of the coin. I spent my time swinging violently from a desperate need to tell all and find caring people to support that journey to an all consuming need to be small and hidden away from prying eyes.

Some people had by now realised that I was in deep trouble and were tentatively offering their support. Sadly I was too far gone and couldn't cope with even the gentlest probing. My need to hide was overwhelming and I struggled even to leave the house.

Thank God for those who did not give up on me.

Poem #2

2006-07-19T10:31:00.000+01:00

Wall.

Building a wall
Around my life
Keeping me safe.

Each new hurt
Providing a brick
Keeping me safe.

The wall is so high
No-one can break through
Keeping me safe.

My wall is strong and firm
Keeping you out
Keeping me safe.

Inside I'm weak and scared
Hiding inside my wall
Needing to be safe.

You can't get past my wall
I won't let you
But I'm still not safe.

May 1993

Surface Relationships.

2006-07-19T09:52:00.000+01:00

I wrote poem #1 at a time when I was surrounded by well meaning christians, who though they were lovely people seemed happy to only touch the surface.

I was looking around for people to connect with, people who could offer some kind of support network as my sanity and ability to cope were becoming dangerously close to fracturing and disintegrating.

The poem sums up the questions I wanted to ask them but I was too scared that they would turn and run. Occasionally I allowed a little to slip out and some of them did indeed do a runner (figuratively speaking).

It seemed to me at the time that Church was full of nice people who would willingly share the peace with you and participate in communion but don't you dare tarnish their beautiful lives with your pain and misery.

I no longer think that it is quite as bad as all that but there are those who will only ever desire the surface relationship and will never want to know anything about the real and deeper you. I think this is sad. What is even sadder is that sometimes I am guilty of the same thing.

Poem #1

2006-07-19T09:45:00.000+01:00

What Do You See?

What do you see
When you look at me?
Do you see the fear
Wrapped around my heart?
Do you see the pain
Concealed within my smile?
Do you see the heartache
Deep down in my eyes?
Tell me, what do you see
When you look at me?

What do hear
When I talk to you?
Do you hear the years
Of doubt, of trying to be free?
Do you hear the chains
Rattling as they hold on to me@
Do you hear me screaming?
Do you want to?

November 1992

A Life Survived In Poetry

2006-07-19T09:35:00.000+01:00

When I went through my decade of depression I wrote poetry. I wrote to survive and to leave something to explain my demise if I could no longer go on surviving.

I wrote and wrote and from time to time I revisit it and marvel that I ever found a way through. But I did survive and what is more I eventually learned how to live and to love.

From to time - perhaps even a lot - I will reproduce some of these poems - the good and the not so good - here. They will help to tell my story.

If..

2006-07-18T10:44:00.000+01:00

If people were honest and only asked the questions they really wanted answers to - what would the world look like?

Can you imagine it

'Oh hello, how are you today?'

'Well the kids had me up all night and I feel kinda tired and the cat gor run over and I can't afford a vet and I've got this pain around my heart that won't go away and yesterday I buried my best friend and I can't quite get over the trauma of the past and I would really like to talk and I would really like you to hear me'

We ask the questions but we don't really want to hear what the other person really feels and what is going on in their lives. That would somehow be too messy, too personal, too close.

Sometimes......

2006-07-18T10:21:00.000+01:00

Sometimes I am woken by screaming only to realise it is me.
Sometimes I am too scared to close my eyes and sleep for fear of what lurks in the darkness.
Sometimes the tears fall for no apparent reason.
Sometimes silence is terrifying.

Sometimes I hope for a better future.
Sometimes I find jou in just being alive.
Sometimes my children remind me of all that was stolen from me.
Sometimes my children remind me of the beauty of living.

Sometimes the Son shines into my darkness.
Sometimes the Light threatens to reveal my secrets.
Sometimes I welcome this.
Sometimes I cower in the dark corners afraid to come out.
Sometimes I think I understand.
Sometimes I know I never will.

Beginnings...

2006-07-18T10:12:00.000+01:00

This blog has remained empty for some time. One would think that it was fairly easy to write about ones own life. Just start at the beginning and move forward through history until the present day is reached.

It isn't that easy. Much of my childhood is lost in the trauma of survival, some is jumbled and can't possibly be exactly as how I remember it. Some memories only exist in a series of photo like images that flash into mind and then are gone before I can really understand them. Others are two painful to contemplate and yet they will not be still, they will not be silenced.

It is time I think to allow them to speak, sometimes in the small voice and sometimes to shout. to give voice and words and articulate-ness to the inarticulate scream of a frightened child. She will not be silenced, not now, not anymore.

Come forth Child, for here you will be heard, here you will be safe.