I grew up thinking certain things were okay
and acceptable
and normal within family households.
When I was 5,
I thought it was normal Mommy and Daddy didn't love each other
and that Daddys always slept in cars
or Mommys always cried and went to Grandmas
When I was 6
I thought it was normal for my dad to rip starter learning books from my little hands
out of a fit of rage because I left my toys out
and smash my glass, horse piggy bank with it,
making me clean it up.
When I was 7,
I thought it was normal to be yelled at for being sad, and to cry
for numerous hours, consistently being told to "shut up"
and having my dad storm in
ripping off my blanket I had over for me as protection
and video taping my most vulnerable moment of fear
with his "Home Video Camera." to save and show me and laugh at in
the following week.
When I was 8,
I thought it was normal for Mommys to let me choose how I
wanted her to hurt me
would I want a plastic spoon,or a wooden spatula?
would I want purple bruises, or rigid cuts?
When I was 9,
I thought it was normal for Daddys to get so angry
because my door closed quicker than he accepted,
so he would storm upstairs and rip the door off of the metal hinge
and toss it inches from my delicate feet
breaking my mirror, further breaking my own perspective.
When I was 10,
I thought it was normal to be forced to scrub the house from top
to bottom
from window to window
from inch to inch
from tile to tile
When I was 11,
I thought it was normal for Mommy to
drag me around the house by my hair,
when I wasn't yet finished with my homework
until I had bald patches within my scalp.
When I was 12,
I thought it was normal to fear my fathers footsteps
of whos sound I memorized
based on the unusual beating of my petrified heart
and unexpected tears soaking my pillow full of nightmares
When I was 13,
I thought it was normal to be kept home from
school to clean
because I was a failure and I messed it up anyways.
When I was 14,
I thought it was normal to cut my wrists
and dig my nails into my scarring skin
and rip my hair out,
while being told by my aware mother that
I was being dramatic.
When I was 15,
I thought it was normal to be told im toxic for this family,
for my family to offer their homes to me in attempt to save any mental stability that may be left
for my father to ground me for weeks because I forgot to do the dishes
and for my parents to call me skanky
and for holes they kicked in my walls
and for suicidal grandfathers
and car crash deaths
and lawsuits
and abusive boyfriends
and losing my house
and losing my best friends
Who were not my best friends.
Mom,
dad,
you are not my best friends.
-
Author:
amandaxjade (Pseudonym) (
Offline)
- Published: November 26th, 2017 00:37
- Category: Unclassified
- Views:
- User favorite of this poem: JC.
Comments3
Vulnerability is courage and you show much in sharing your experiences...
This poem has emotional impact, and I felt it was a well written expression of angst. I think it is a good sign that you recognize how messed up things were, and hopefully you have worked through it. Thank you for sharing.
Amanda, your incredible poem should be 'must reading' for any new parents! It does not sound like a childhood, it sounds like a nightmare. I sincerely hope you will be able to leave these terrible memories behind and look forward to a life filled with love and happiness!
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