He called me
Worthless, Useless, Weakling,
Iíd never amount to anything,
all I was good at was crying.
He called himself
Family Man, Community Pillar,
Church Leader and Scout Master;
so his ďmistakesĒ didnít matter.
He called me
Baby, Sissy, Pansy,
I was like a Girl and certainly
a Pathetic, Limp-wristed Disgrace,
said Iíd grow up a Hopeless Case.
They called themselves
He-Men and Jocks;
They said they must get off their rocks.
They were the ones who dished the crap;
I was the one who took the rap.
They called me
Faggot, Gay and Queer;
They played upon my deepest fear.
They made me feel like a Boy-Whore,
They treated me like that and more.
I called myself
a Wretched Mess,
a Worthless Victim Ė even less
than anyone could ever guess,
a Nothing, shattered under stress.
So now Iím called
Child of Abuse,
Walking Wounded, Work-in-Progress,
I know the truth exposed in cries,
once hidden under piles of lies.
And some day I
will re-name Me,
showing the Man I want to be.
Iíll have no more shame to lose;
Iíll bear only the Name I choose.
"the scariest thing about abuse of any shape or form, is, in my opinion, not the abuse itself, but that if it continues it can begin to feel commonplace and eventually acceptable."
- Alan Cumming, "Not My Father's Son"