So, while doing therapy for my Adult abuse (see previous entries) I was able to admit and partially remember being molested by a parishioner in my father's church when I was 9. It happened in the bathroom, in the basement of a very old building. I have buried the memories for years, but the physical sensations and anxiety are still very real and overpowering. The memory is trapped inside my body... that's the only way I can really describe it. So I was trying to let some of it go, and it came out a little poetically.


He looms up behind me like a towering wall,
a condemned building that I somehow find myself inside.
How did I get trapped in the cellar?

And when he crashes over me like the ocean, a fatal car crash,
I am pinned to the sink gasping for breath.
I am trapped in pause,
this moment,
unable to move or escape, staring at myself in the mirror like itís a crime scene photo.


He envelops me like a mudslide,
destroying my shanties of resistance
like the twigs my limbs are.
I am buried alive with this fear and shame,
the suffocating heat of the forbidden,
the filth of rules he was determined to break.

I didnít realize it wasnít only rules he broke that day.