Lucy B. In Your Own Words

A lot of the teens I talk to have a well-developed creative side. For many, creativity is an outlet for the pain they suffer through. For some, that pain stems from abuse, an addiction, depression or just a sucky situation.

Writing has been a gift for me not only because I am talented with my words, but because it is a way to share my life as I heal. Most of you know what I am talking about.

I would like to introduce you to some of those talented writers that I am proud to call "friends."

Lucy B. is one of those phenomenal writers!

Take a look inside Lucy's world.

"So, what are you wearing for prom?" asked Sofie.

"I told you, I'm not going, I don't like wearing non-sleeve things, and we all know the dresses are strap dresses," I lied.

The real reason I wasn't going is because my dad had forbidden me to go to any social events. I didn't wear short sleeved things because it showed my bruises from dad hitting me.

"Well, wear a cardigan then!" she suggested.

"Sofie, I'm not going and that's that!" I snapped.

She looked at me, shocked and then looked away to check the bus times.

"Sorry," I murmured.

I thought I heard her utter: "it's okay," but I must of being hearing things. Anyway I was too deep in thought about how I would attach the new lock I bought onto my door wondering if it would be stronger than before. Stronger than the one dad broke when he wanted to come in. I told him I was drying my hair, but he didn't care. He wanted to hit me again. Then, when the door opened, the lock fell to pieces. Remembering what he shouted at me, and the way he looked at me, pur hate in his eyes. I couldn't help but let out a little whimper.

"Natalie, Nat, are you okay?" Sofie asked, cautiously.

"Yes. No, it's just-" I stuttered, before Sofie (surprisingly) butted in.

"Listen, if you’re having flash backs about the car crash with your mum, then that's okay. I understand, but don't cry. You know it makes me cry too!" she said, shaking me softly and giggling.

"No, no it's just my dad, he-" but before I could finish the bus had arrived and Sofie was chatting up the cute bus driver.

"Come on Nat!" she shouted from the double seat. "I got us seats by the window!"

I skipped on and acted normal, well, as normal as any teenager could when they were being abused by their parents.

After a few minutes of butt aching bumping up and down, we finally arrived at my stop. I said ‘goodbye’ to Sofie and muttered a quiet 'thank you' to the driver and started trudging down my road. It was a long walk from my bus stop, but dad said I needed the exercise, so he only gave me enough money to get to that stop.

When I finally got home I found dad snoring like a pig on my bed. I shook him gently to wake him up, but it turned out he wasn't in such a good mood.

"What did you do that for, you stupid cow?" he shouted, grabbing my arm and twisting it. Hard.

"I wanted to. Ow! Dad you're hurting me!" I exclaimed.

"Good. You’re a stupid, selfish ugly waste of space! No wonder your mother killed herself!" he yelled, twisting my arm harder.

"What?" I hissed, a little too meanly.

"You! You drove her to suicide. She drove that car into a river because of you!" he growled, letting go of my arm. "She couldn't breathe, the water was rushing up her body, like this," and he started from my hips and went upwards, then stopped at my neck. "And then the water went into her mouth, and then there was no more breathing for her. Like THIS!" and his hands closed tightly on my neck.

I couldn't breathe. My own father was strangling me. But surely he wouldn't kill me, would he? But then his hands left my neck and went back down to my hips again. He pushed me onto the bed so I was sitting on it, then he sat down beside me.

"I'm sorry. I'm a silly idiot, can we hug?" he said.

I nodded slowly, but it was more than a hug. He pulled me down so we were lying on the bed, and then his hands started sliding up my top.

If you have a story/poem/journal excerpt you would like to share, email me @ saylorsays@yahoo.com

xoxo,

Introducing Lucy B. ... "In Your Own Words"

Lucy is a survivor of horrible abuse at the hand of her father - Her poem is below. It is a TRUTH for many teens out there. Our parents are supposed to protect us, show us how much they love us. But not all of us are that lucky.

I am a firm believer in the mindset that NASTY things come into our lives to strengthen us for something we will need to be strong for in the future. Maybe Lucy will be a teacher someday and a student on the verge of suicide will confide in her and tell her secret. Lucy will be able to honestly say, "I KNOW how you feel. Let's get through this together."

If you consider yourself a SURVIVOR of ABUSE - you are also a future HERO in someone else's life. Stay strong and reach out. You will be used for BIG things and you may just save a life!

And now I will give the floor to LUCY...

 I sat there weeped,
There was nothing I could do.
The family sleeped,
But not I.

...I listened for hours,
Not knowing what to do.
My tears came in showers,
But nobody cared.

I lay in bed at night,
Trying to ignore it all.
I still shivered with fright.
But nobody knew.

The abuse just kept on going,
I know it wasn't to me.
But as a witness,
It's just as bad.
All you hear is shouting,
The madness never-ending.
Never-ending...never-ending.

But then I found help,
The help was my voice,
I shouted and yelped:
'This is killing me. Let. Me. Go!'

And then they came,
The police,
The colour from my face, oh how it drained.
What had I done.

What would he do?

Thanks Lucy B. for sharing.
If you have a poem, story or rant to share please email it to saylorsays@yahoo.com

For Children Who Were Broken : A Poem by teen Elia Wise

For Children Who Were Broken
by Elia Wise
For Children Who Were Broken
it is very hard to mend......
Our pain was rarely spoken
and we hid the truth from friends.
Our parents said they loved us,
but they didn't act that way.
They broke our hearts
and stole our worth,
with the things that they would say.
We wanted them to love us.
We didn't know what we did
to make them yell at us
and hit us,
and wish we weren't their kid.

They'd beat us up and scream at us
and blame us for their lives.
Then they'd hold us close inside their arms
and tell us confusing lies
of how they really loved us --
even though we were BAD,
and how it was OUR fault they hit us,
OUR fault that they were mad.
When days were just beginning
we sometimes prayed for them to end,
and when the pain kept coming,
we learned to just pretend
that we were good
and so were they
and this was just
on of those days ...
tomorrow we'd be friends.
We had to believe it so.
We had nowhere else to go.
Each day that we pretended,
we replaced reality
with lies, or dreams,
or angry schemes,
in search of dignity ....
until our lies
got bigger than the truth,
and we had no one real to be
Our bodies were forsaken.
With no safe place to hide,
we learned to stop
hearing and feeling what they did to our outsides.
We tried to make them love us,
till we hated ourselves instead,
and couldn't see a way out,
and wished that they were dead.
We scared ourselves by thinking that,
and scared ourselves to know,
that we were acting just like them --
and might ever more be so.
To be half the size of a grown-up
and trapped inside their pain....
To every day lose everything
with no savior or refrain...
To wonder how it is possible
that God could so forget
the worthy child you knew you were,
when you had not been damaged yet ...
To figure on your fingers
that the years till you'd be grown
enough to leave the torment
and survive away from home,
were more than you could count to,
or more than you could bear,
was the reality we lived in
and we knew it wasn't fair.
We who grew up broken
are somewhat out of time,
struggling to mend our childhood,
when our peers are in their prime.
Where others find love
and contentment,
we still often have to strive
to remember we are worthy,
and heroes just to be alive.
Some of us are healing.
some are stealing.
Most are passing the anger on.
Some give their lives away to drugs,
or the promise of like beyond.
Some still hide from society.
Some struggle to belong.
But all of us are wishing
the past would not hold on
so long.
There's a lot of digging down to do
to find the child within,
to love away the ugly pain
and feel innocence again.
There is forgiveness
worthy of angel's wings
for remembering those at all,
who abused our sacred childhood
and programmed us to fall.
To seek to understand them,
and how their pain became our own,
is to risk the ground we stand on
to climb the mountain home.
The journey is not so lonely
as in the past it s been ...
More of us are strong enough
to let the growth begin.
But while we're trekking
up the mountain
we need everything we've got,
to face the adults we have become,
and all that we are not.
So when you see us weary
from the day's internal climb ...
When we find fault
with your best efforts,
or treat imperfection
as purposeful crime ...
When you see our quick defenses,
our efforts to control,
our readiness to form a plan
of unrealistic goals ...
When we run into a conflict
and fight to the bitter end,
remember ...
We think that winning means
we won't be hurt again.
When we abandon OUR thoughts
and feelings,
to be what we believe YOU
want us to,
or look at trouble we re having,
and want to blame it all on you...
When life calls for new beginnings,
and we fear they re doomed to end,
remember...
Wounded trust is like a wounded knee--
It is very hard to bend.
Please remember this
when we are out of sorts.
Tell us the truth, and be our friend.
For children who were broken...
it is very hard to mend.

Send me your poems, thoughts, short stories and I will share them... anonymously if you choose.

xoxo