Poetry

Childhood Lost

There are days where it just hits me 

Where the unspeakable mass of emotions

Holds me by the throat,

Slams my fragile body into my deteriorating mind

And an erratic heart beat applauds another loss

Of maddening success 

As birds twitch awake 

Ridiculing my drooling sunset

With a laugh and a tweet

Cruising the plummeting squeek of swinging defeat.

All while I cry

My god, do I cry.

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An honest story about Child-on-child sexual abuse

Child abuse is something that makes a lot of people uncomfortable. 

Child-on-child sexual abuse (CoCSA) damn right cringes people the hell out. 

I’m here to talk about both, if not now, then for a short time soon.

What amazes me is that it’s not widely talked about and victims of  (CoCSA) are shamed into silence about it or are mistakenly blamed for the sexual assault they encountered as a small child. Like, “no, that wasn’t sexual abuse! That was you exploring your sexuality, you little deviant!”

But guess what? 

If you’ve had to suffer through unwanted sexual contact as a child from another child, that is CoCSA. That experience shouldn’t be explained away, it shouldn’t be brushed under the rug nor should it be minimilised. 

Your experience is very real, incredibly valid and shouldn’t be silenced because it makes people uncomfortable. That’s not fair on you or your experience. 

I’m sick and tired of people looking down on victims of CoCSA because they can’t wrap it around their own minds how one child can violate another in such a way, but holy hell does it happen. And it happens in the thousands. 

One way or another, that experience can very well effect your functioning. 

I know because it has effected mine. And I hate it. Absolutely hate it with a passion and I wish I never had to go through that but I did. 

I did.

Nakedstreetkid out x

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STORYTIME: The story of Little Miss Scarface

I find that I have always grown up hating my body.

This was true for me especially after being sexually abused. I remember feeling dirty and just hating myself beyond comprehendabe words. That I wanted, more than anything, to get rid of that feeling of dirt that layed grinning, firmly attached to my skin.

So I found a way.

Something that I used to do from a very young age was scrub away at my body with a sponge.The sponge being a notted lace of mesh-like material, which was – and still is – a very popular method of cleaning the body in Africa, Ghana. This increased with a furious vengence during and after the sexual abuse. I would scrub and scrub and scrub, until the first layer of skin came off and then the second layer.

Essentially, without knowing it, I was engaging in self-harm behaviours.

It was something I did in private and my mum didn’t really know about it until I started getting acne at the age of 10. Which I was so embarassed by, so, what did I do? I scrubbed it away.

And my mum was furious. 

Absolutely furious.
She kept asking me why would I do that to myself, that people were going to see that ugly mark on my forehead and people were going to hate me.

But I didn’t really care. People already hated me, I didn’t have any friends and scubbing away my problems in the past made me feel satisfied, so why should I care? But my mum went on and on, shouting at me until I felt utterly ashamed of what I had done and felt very much that I shouldn’t have done it for everyone to see. That now that people could see it, they would definitely not be my friend.

So, I went into school the next day, with a collection of small plasters on my forehead and because they were too small, I had to place some of the sticky parts onto the open wound. I remember it hurting so much but being proud of myself because I had successfully hidden it.

A lot of people came p to me and asked me about it and I laughed it of, saying that I had skid my head on the pavement while playing outside but at least I was one step closer to being the next Harry Potter. Most people bought that and a lot more people found me interesting.

The long story short? I made friends, my self-esteem grew and without knowing it, I surrounded myself with people who somewhat cared about me.

Nakedstreetkid out x

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A Traumatic Childhood Relived

The worst experience of my life was, and always will be, my childhood. Although, when people around me claim it was one of the best times of their life, I just nod along like a spineless chicken. You see, if I go against the flock on this one, people would always ask me why and I wouldn’t really know what to say.

How do I even begin to explain the level of emotional and physical abuse at the hand of my father from birth? How do I explain my older sister’s physical abuse against me? How do I explain I was isolated throughout this time by peers in school? How do I explain my very turbulent year of repeated sexual assault from a childhood friend?

The sad truth is: I can’t.

So, I nod along because there is nothing in me that wants to lay claim to these traumatic events. There is nothing in me that wants to relive them over and over and over again in my memory. I just can’t because I don’t want to.

So I paint over these painful memories with the colourful, happy and generic ones that all my other peers share. Because at the end of the day, all I’ve ever wanted was to fit in and left alone.

That is all I want.

Nakedstreetkid out xx

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Anger and Me

Anger is a funny tool used by people to get things done. It’s something that I, for the longest time, refused to use because I’ve always thought it was something that can only ever produce negative results.

But I think I was wrong.

I’ve been watching Philip Defranco more and more on the youtubes, especially as my gap year continues to progress without much of a blip. Or just a lot of blips but not of fun, rather distressing and incredibly trying times. It’s been very insightful to watch this man that I’ve always seen as someone I’ve always seen as an inspirational figure talk about anger as something that can be positive.

Because for me, anger has always been this terrible evil that infects and destroys people’s lives. And that reasoning has come from a place of experience, where either my father or my sister has used anger to become violent towards me, belittle and ruin me.

So, I’ve always shied away from feeling anger because I was afraid of the devastating effects it may cause. But in doing that, I’ve just turned that anger inwards towards myself in ways that I don’t feel entirely comfortable in articulating. Just know that these ways have been harmful to myself and has affected my life in ways that I cannot begin to explain or describe.

But the way Philip Defranco puts it, to use all that energy from anger and channel it towards something positive and useful, is beginning to resonate with me.
I should probably explain that, during this past year I have been having a difficult time in terms of suicidal ideation, depression, trichotillomania, dermatillomania, anxiety and – on a lesser note from all that – revision. And that has made me so angry. And because of my almost instintual tribulations with anger, that anger has been turned inwards and towards myself. Hence the depression and occasional anxiety.

But what I’m beginning to understand – more and more – is all that energy that I put into hating myself and everything I do, if I just direct even a little bit of it towards the things I want to achieve, I can achieve them. I can. Because that energy and all that adrenaline is such so instrumental and should not be wasted on simple self-loathing. It can actually be used for good, something that benefits oneself.

So, I guess I was right from the get-go, that anger is a powerful tool. I just had everything a little twisted about anger being a purely bad thing. Anger can in fact be a good thing, it’s just the way you direct it that matters.

Nakedstreetkid out 😉

NaBloPoMo

A Parents Cry

I think people generally remember the first time their parents cry, together and individually.

But you see, I was never so lucky to understand emotion is supposed to be shared and not hidden in fear or exposed in anger. I was never so lucky.

Instead, tears were cried against an oppressive hand, a hand which whipped itself in anger and intolerance. I guess that’s fathers for you, unpredictable anger. And that’s a mother for you, tears that cling onto a heavy heart and only spill out when they think no one’s looking.

I guess those are my parents for you. In a nutshell. But they no longer are, either, but rather were.

Everyone’s right about that much, you know? Things do get better.

Happy birthday mum.

Nakedstreetkid out