Mom Hit Us With Her Fist

A fellow New Thought minister and online friend wrote this poem. It moved me deeply. If you grew up in an abusive home, you may relate to her pain. Susanne has now found love in her life. She has done a lot of healing and is now helping others. It is a testament to the strength and courage of her spirit and the power of love. If you are experiencing abuse in your life right now, reach out for help. Tell someone--a pastor, friend, the police. If you are an abuser, the same is true: reach out for help. Now.

 

 

 

Mom hit us with her fist.  Hard.

She also hit me over the head 

with 1" thick broom sticks,

I can still feel the dent--

she striped our legs with lathe

 or switches, smacking with

either side of her hand,

hitting me with an iron skillet. Cold.

Anything that was handy really--

if she was mad and I was nearby.  

Mom slugged me when I was tiny.

I would fly across the room

and land on the furniture,

arms and legs akimbo, stunned.

Or I'd smash into a wall and drop

to the floor in a shriveled pile. 

I don't remember being hugged

or kissed, or having my hand held

gently, kindly, guidingly.

I remember my arm being jerked

one way or another,

lifted off the ground like a rag doll

My shoulder painful, sore. 

I don't remember being loved, but I remember loving,

I remember loving each of

my two sisters and two brothers,

and even the one who was sent away—

Adopted by strangers,

not spoken of aloud by the adults

in the room, whispered about

with my sister under the woven bedcover

in the chilly darkness at our grandparents,

or in the wagon wheel bunk beds,

When we were lonely and wished for someone

to love us more than a fist.

 

Please visit Susanne Freeborn on her blog: http://open.salon.com/content.php?cid=97018

Comments

[Beryl Singleton Bissell]

This was painful to read. So very painful. Those little ones, so trusting, so hurting, so damaged and in need of healing.