There once was a little boy.
There once was a little fighter.
There once was a little driver.
There once was a little protector.
There once was a little runaway.
There once was a little weapon of anger.
There once was a Sunday school attender.
There once was a bully confronted.
There once was an empty soul.
There once were empty eyes.
There once were battered limbs.
There once were hate filled eyes.
There once were slams by the neck.
There once were furniture broken.
There once was a gun ready for a fight.
There once were doors crashing inward.
There once were holes in the walls.
There once were yelling and screaming.
There once were sounds of rape.
There once were dark shadows in my room.
There once were sexual abuse on top my body.
There once were sexual abuse I hovered above my body.
There once were beatings with a belt.
There once were smacks across the face.
There once were black and blue bruises.
There once were rules.
There once were changing rules.
There once were changing rules.
There once were changing rules.
There once were hair grabs.
There once were slamming two heads.
There once were no first aid given.
There once were silent suffering.
There once were pulling the hair out of my head.
There once were wetting my bed.
There once was a monster.
There once was a Dad.
There once was a monster.
That monster is dead.
Those are all of my roles, my Dad's roles, the abuse I survived and the healing that has yet to take place. Each anniversary date erupts more and more pain. Deeper and deeper it makes it's way up. I've so badly wanted to self-injure or overeat or drink. But I know those acts of terrorism on my body will not serve me well. Instead, I remind myself that I have to keep talking, no matter how uncomfortable it becomes.
No more abuse to my body.
I have to love myself more than I love abusing myself.
And even if I don't feel that way, there's only way I know of to get there.
I have to fake it until I make it.
