Time

Time like sand
 slips through my fingers

Until,

   Death with an icy touch
knocks it from my hand.

Note to my wonderful readers, my health is fine, better than it has been in a long time, in fact.  This poem was simply a result of my reflections on the many things I would like to accomplish in my lifetime and how little time there really is to do them.

Ashes of Abuse: Guilt

You have heard that frequently children whose parents get divorced blame themselves.  "If only I had gotten better grades," or "If I didn't argue so much with my brothers," they think.  Children who are abused blame themselves as well.  I think it is not only a misperception but also a coping mechanism.  After all which is more difficult to accept? The idea the people who are supposed to love you and take care of you are hurting you in ways you can't begin to understand and you are powerless to stop it or to believe that somehow you caused it, and if you can just figure out what you did wrong it will stop?

As adults, if our parents divorced we can grasp that it was not our fault. We understand how relationships work.  However, for adults who were abused as children, it can be difficult to let go of the guilt and shame.

Some Day

"Tell me again,"
I say and they do,
"It's not your fault."

I picture them in my mind,
my husband,
my Bishop,
my therapist,
my friends

I see the words on their lips,
I hear their words with my ears.
"It's not your fault"

But my heart
. . .does not hear
The little child in me
. . .does not see. . .
         
Somewhere deep inside,
...I know
       It was my fault,
and I need
    to be Punished.

"Tell me again," I say. And they do...
Some day I will believe them.

Some day,
. . .but not today.