I came across this video about bullying recently. Watching it, I realised that even though I was never bullied very harshly, the poem still resonated with me. I realised again how little difference there really is between child abuse and bullying, apart from the age of the perpetrator(s).
Saturday, 23 March 2013
Friday, 8 March 2013
Arguments used to discredit survivors
There are a number of standard arguments used by predators and their lawyers to discredit those who accuse them sexual abuse. This is my response to them.
He (the accuser) is troubled/emotionally unstable. You cannot take him seriously.
There are two responses to this, both of which are often true for any specific survivor.
First, it is well known that predators often target troubled children. The quite boys, the outsiders and the misfits are simply more susceptible to grooming and easier to isolate from their peers. The lonely child is much more likely to respond to perceived kindness and acceptance from the predator. How many survivors have echoed the statement that "he made me feel special"?
Wednesday, 6 March 2013
Letter to my big brother
Brother,
When I was a little boy, you were my hero, my rock, my guiding light. When I scraped my knees and our mother couldn't be bothered to pay attention, you cleaned them for me. When my father beat me, you read me stories until I stopped crying. When he was screaming at my mother in the kitchen, you taught me to put my hands over my ears and sing. When my mother couldn't be bothered to give us something to eat, you showed me where she kept the bread. You beat up any bully who as much as looked at us. You walked us home from school. You helped me with my homework.
And you made me suck you penis.
You were a lost child. You mother, for reasons I will never understand, took you from your dad and delivered you into the hands of a monster. Your step father, my father, beat you. He used you for an ashtray. He raped you. I don't know how old you were when he started abusing you, but I remember the first time he raped you, because that was the day I saw you die before my six-year-old eyes. Still, you found it in yourself to try to protect me, the child of your abuser.
When I was a little boy, you were my hero, my rock, my guiding light. When I scraped my knees and our mother couldn't be bothered to pay attention, you cleaned them for me. When my father beat me, you read me stories until I stopped crying. When he was screaming at my mother in the kitchen, you taught me to put my hands over my ears and sing. When my mother couldn't be bothered to give us something to eat, you showed me where she kept the bread. You beat up any bully who as much as looked at us. You walked us home from school. You helped me with my homework.
And you made me suck you penis.
You were a lost child. You mother, for reasons I will never understand, took you from your dad and delivered you into the hands of a monster. Your step father, my father, beat you. He used you for an ashtray. He raped you. I don't know how old you were when he started abusing you, but I remember the first time he raped you, because that was the day I saw you die before my six-year-old eyes. Still, you found it in yourself to try to protect me, the child of your abuser.
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