The Blemished Rose

I am honoured and very proud to have been published by Survivors' Poetry in their Poetry Express Magazine. The six poems that were selected are very poignant because I wrote them last Spring when I faced new difficulties related to my past. I had to let out my feelings and emotions and, as I have done in the past, I used poetry as a release. About Survivors' Poetry, taken from their website: Survivors’ Poetry is a national charity established in 1991 which promotes the writing of survivors of mental distress. A Survivor may be a person with a current or past experience of psychiatric hospitals, ECT, tranquillisers or other medication, a user of counselling services, a survivor of sexual abuse, child abuse and any other person who has empathy with the experiences of survivors. Here is a link to edition 44 of the magazine featuring my poems on pages 36 and 37: http://www.survivorspoetry.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/PEN44.pdf

I told my mother and father that perhaps they should confront the abuser, as I did, to release their anger. Upon reflection, my mother decided it was time to confront him, so I drove my parents to the hospital where he was a patient. I wasn’t planning on going in as I had already told him everything I had to say, but upon arrival I decided to confront that evil face one last time. In the lift I could almost hear the thoughts swimming around in my parents’ brains, once again I felt an unknown power build up inside me. I was the first to emerge from the lift and as I walked out into the corridor there was an old, dying man sat alone in his pyjamas – it was the paedophile. My mother approached him and said, “You are a paedophile and criminal and you will burn in hell.” He tried shouting back but stayed silent when I told him to shut up- once again, I felt as though the roles had reversed. I had a flashback to all those years ago, strapped down to him naked with his hand cupping my mouth t...

A couple of months after I confronted my abuser, I returned to that place full of painful memories. It was the first time in years that I had entered the evil house where so many abusive acts had taken place. As I entered through the rotting, wooden door, an intense heaviness came over me. I could hear a television blaring in the house next door; I knew that it was my abuser viewing it. I felt a sudden burst of adrenaline as I pulled out the posters I had prepared bearing his face and a single word- ‘paedophile.’ I stuck them in various places including some very poignant ones, like a mattress- signifying the place I had been taken advantage of so many times. A calendar- because it was something he would use to lure me there. As I left the house, I felt the heaviness release from within and when I emerged into the wintry air, I cried and my tears melted into the deep snow. Last summer, four years after the initial confrontation, I returned there once more. Although I had gone back ther...