I’m disappointed in you.
Raising your fist,
in front of a child.
When the time is right,
I’ll tell you this to your face.
As I told you exactly what I thought
There’s no excuse for abuse, old man.
How’s your shame feel?
If you read things correctly-
Not your strongest characteristic-
You saw the disappointment
in my eyes, as you threatened to hit me
while your hand clenched my shirt,
fist back and raised.
I stared you down.
I never raised my hands.
No need to.
No Grandfather should act this way
in front of a three year old.
And no father should put his finger
in the face of his daughter
and Yell, “Shut the Fuck up.”
That was the moment
you lost the entire narcissistic game you put into place.
Can’t bully a man like me.
I look forward to our next meeting.
I look forward to what I’ll say.
See, while in jail, I was told,
“Use your words.”
Seems to me you should chase wisdom’s tail.
Seems to me you never knew who you were, or are;
facades until completion won’t amount to truth.
I’ve had a lifetime of hardships.
I’m Not a follower.
Told you this.
You didn’t listen.
A narcissist never does.
They say to not call a narcissist out. I disagree. I did. And I will continue to. Their rage is that of a five year old child. Small. Weak. I’m a narcissists worst nightmare.
I watch them more closely
than they do me.
They pick people apart with smiles.
Telling stories, twisted slightly,
always winning. Shake their hand once,
you’re not a friend. They’ve allowed
your presence. Watching their world.
They’ll demand it. Sit down. And be.
-Because these men
hide behind their shame.
I see them clearly, and listen when-
Sitting on their deck, drinking whiskey,
they obliged, of course, wishing you to think
of their wisdom, with their fake caring,
rocking and rocking while their daughters
fail at happiness and their wives are afraid
to tip the scale; heaven knows what happened,
and heaven is waiting. Because I know men
are men. I shave my beard in the morning,
How I like. I look at these men with empty grace.
They will not know me.
The best way to talk to a survivor is to listen. I believe this with my soul.
If you’ve crawled out from the mud of an abuser you are not alone. While you felt alone and may still, you are not. That was what they wanted you to feel to protect their abuse from being discovered. You have a voice. Use it. Internally, or written as a diary to yourself, or on a platform such as what I’m doing now. Speak of your abuse out loud and it becomes real to the world, and to the abuser. Stop protecting them. You no longer need to keep their secrets. Seek others who understand your pain and speak to a therapist who can give you tools you’ll need to make you a healthier you. You deserve all of this. It was never your fault. Research F.O.G. and set boundaries for any Flying Monkeys that may still be in your life, or go no contact. Do whatever YOU need to do for you. No longer for them. Abusers will use control tactics and manipulation to keep you silent. I know this. I was you. And now I’m me. We are not alone. They cannot break us. They tried and failed. You will not fail. While the mud from crawling may linger, you will wash it off. And when their excuses flood your mind from multiple players in the game of manipulation- Give them one response and walk away. There’s No Excuse For Abuse.
It was found in the hallway of a small home that the original insanity within the abuser’s mind was not as deeply disturbed as the tortured. Delicious was this new found possession of force dripping from our knuckles. -Have we really ventured back, or have we stayed; seeing from tops of trees on a clear day is never compared to seeing too many eyes telling how sick they truly are. They all speak with the same cadence until we break them. There will be no secrets in this room.
She wore her yellow rain jacket with her blue rain boots. She didn’t mind the rain, but her mother would yell at her if she got her clothes too wet. The brook’s banking was muddy and she liked it because she was able to leave impressions with her boots and watch as the rain disturbed her footprints. ‘Maybe I should have been a duck.’ Earlier the young girl had observed a mother duck with her ducklings and watched in awe at how the mother duck quacked and nuzzled her young. When the mother duck started toward the water the ducklings followed. She had felt a sensation brighten within her chest that she’d not felt before. Now though, it was just her and her emptiness watching rain destroy where she’d created another version of self within a few muddy prints. ‘I don’t understand why it’s my fault that I’m hit.’ She leaned against an oak tree and forced the feeling to cry back down her throat. ‘I want to like life, but I don’t know how to make her happy.’
The tree embraced the young girl and said, ‘To decipher manipulation is much like killing yourself slowly and ignoring your knowledge of it. Such is the case when we place a narcissist’s needs into a space of importance. Recently it was demanded of you, by you, to acknowledge what you know to be truth. Soon, it will be time to act, and when you do, this unjust weight will be lifted from you. In time you will have your own ducklings and you will feel your chest brighten to the depths of the heavens. There will be no pity. There will be no, “I’m sorry.” There will only be what you’ve created and you will be loved.’