Diana-M
Beloved Grand Eagle
(Trigger warning: child abuse)
Two nights ago I had one of my worst panic attacks (night terrors) ever. (I have them often, so this is saying a lot.) I had really bad pain following it. Normally, I would ask myself what I’m angry about. But this time, I decided to try Sam Miller’s method. I softly asked the pain— what do you want to tell me? Then, I waited.
Thoughts flooded in. I guess it was time. Some details and feelings about my childhood sexual abuse that I never knew (or even wanted to know.) I could suddenly understand that my biggest trauma came from having no one to tell. No one to help me get through it. I had to act like nothing happened. I stuffed my rage, fear and confusion.
I promised this little child inside of me that I will never abandon her like she once was abandoned—in hell. I will LISTEN to her. I will hear her pain. I will hear her cries she’s sending through my body. My pain is actually her talking about her trauma. She deserves to finally have someone help her. Really help her.
And that’s why I’m telling you. Because she wants to release this secret. She didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not her shame. It belongs to my parents. My narcissistic f#%^ed-up father. And my mother, who beat me, because in her heart, she knew what happened. And she hated me for it.
My pain receded a little after that. But that’s not why I did all this. I did it to finally love myself.
So you can't see their tears
They hide in the light
So you can't see their fears
Forgive and forget
All the while
Love and pain become one and the same
In the eyes of a wounded child
Because hell, hell is for children
And you know that their little lives can become such a mess
Hell, hell is for children
And you shouldn't have to pay for your love
With your bones and your flesh
It's all so confusing this brutal abusing
They blacken your eyes and then apologize
Be daddy's good girl, and don't tell mommy a thing
Be a good little boy, and you'll get a new toy
Tell grandma you fell from the swing
Because hell, hell is for children
And you know that their little lives can become such a mess
Hell, hell is for children
And you shouldn't have to pay for your love
With your bones and your flesh
No, hell is for children
Hell, hell is for hell
Hell is for hell
Hell is for children
Two nights ago I had one of my worst panic attacks (night terrors) ever. (I have them often, so this is saying a lot.) I had really bad pain following it. Normally, I would ask myself what I’m angry about. But this time, I decided to try Sam Miller’s method. I softly asked the pain— what do you want to tell me? Then, I waited.
Thoughts flooded in. I guess it was time. Some details and feelings about my childhood sexual abuse that I never knew (or even wanted to know.) I could suddenly understand that my biggest trauma came from having no one to tell. No one to help me get through it. I had to act like nothing happened. I stuffed my rage, fear and confusion.
I promised this little child inside of me that I will never abandon her like she once was abandoned—in hell. I will LISTEN to her. I will hear her pain. I will hear her cries she’s sending through my body. My pain is actually her talking about her trauma. She deserves to finally have someone help her. Really help her.
And that’s why I’m telling you. Because she wants to release this secret. She didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not her shame. It belongs to my parents. My narcissistic f#%^ed-up father. And my mother, who beat me, because in her heart, she knew what happened. And she hated me for it.
My pain receded a little after that. But that’s not why I did all this. I did it to finally love myself.
So you can't see their tears
They hide in the light
So you can't see their fears
Forgive and forget
All the while
Love and pain become one and the same
In the eyes of a wounded child
Because hell, hell is for children
And you know that their little lives can become such a mess
Hell, hell is for children
And you shouldn't have to pay for your love
With your bones and your flesh
It's all so confusing this brutal abusing
They blacken your eyes and then apologize
Be daddy's good girl, and don't tell mommy a thing
Be a good little boy, and you'll get a new toy
Tell grandma you fell from the swing
Because hell, hell is for children
And you know that their little lives can become such a mess
Hell, hell is for children
And you shouldn't have to pay for your love
With your bones and your flesh
No, hell is for children
Hell, hell is for hell
Hell is for hell
Hell is for children
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I’m sorry you went through it too. But we aren’t our trauma. We are us. I think being so young definitely makes it get stored in the body. And I also think— I just realized this in the past couple days—what an incredibly huge thing to have to stuff. Even after it happened. Your mind knew whenever you saw the person. Think how good you would get at stuffing even the little things the rest of your life.