What do you call a statistic in a world full of abused children? Answer: A Survivor.
My name is Catherine Mellen and I am a statistic. I lived over thirty years under a cloud of shame, secrets and silence in a society that hid from the reality of childhood trauma and family secrets. I never used drugs, didn’t turn to alcohol, forgave my birth mother and accepted an apology I never received. I did all society expected us statistics to do, but all it did was drown me. Society kept me a victim, reality made me a survivor.
My two-part memoir screams the truth behind cruelty, torture, child rape, family secrets and unsolved murders in my hometown of Lowell Massachusetts.
When the pity is easier to look at than what the communication will tell, we as children are told to move on and forget. As adults we are told to forgive, yet we live our whole lives trying to forget something we will always remember and search for forgiveness in what is so unforgivable ~ Catherine Mellen
A true story chronicling the young life of Catherine Alice Mellen and the mother who harbored a monster. A graphic, in-depth detailed look into the daily life of childhood trauma, family secrets and a young girl who just wanted the abuse to stop. Being a trophy in a child predators sick world, she turned to a mother who turned her away, she looked up to brothers who looked the other way. She pleaded for help, begged to be protected and assumed it was love. It wasn’t long until Catherine’s mother turned her excuses for her boyfriend into hate for her own daughter. This is a true story of one childs desperation for survival.
And I am that child who grew up to shatter her silence on childhood trauma, family secrets and unsolved murders.
Labor Day pays tribute to the contributions and achievements of working people. Those folks back in the 1800s, they fought for our rights as workers. We celebrate them and we celebrate each other.
What Is Silent Treatment??… A form of control designed to cause harm by making the Survivor feel powerless, invisible, insignificant and non-existent! But a Voice, now that’s a form of strength and freedom. Don’t let anyone ever quiet your voice, it could take you decades to find it. #TrueStory. Find out more about my voice, my strength and me at… https://shatter-the-silence.mn.co/landing?space_id=820640 Follow me on Twitter, LinkedIn, Instagram & Pinterest @irishgirl692 Find me on Amazon, AllAuthor and Goodreads. Final proof copies will be in tomorrow and next up will be a release date for Part One of my memoir.
I was in my late 30’s when I saw my first shooting star ⭐ A year ago I saw my second shooting star. This weekend I saw a total of 14 shooting stars and 2 stars that lit up bright and disappeared into dust (I’ll call those Star Duds 🤣) Star gazing is one of my favorite things to do and this past weekend, I witnessed some amazing skies. It reminded me that even as a 51 year old, this world, life and journey we live is full of intriguing moments, amazing sights and adventures beyond imagination.
A shooting star is proof that falling can be beautiful when you give it all you got ❤
From my American Dream: Tales of a Poet (Release date Spring 2022)… For Jon 💛 My Compass Star Another year passes and tears I shed Remembering the words you once said. Broken heart pieces stitched at the scar Being held together by my compass star.
I know your looking down, guiding my way I feel your presence like a warming sun ray. A comfort of knowing you’re not that far Walking beside me, my compass star.
You built my soul with your planted seeds Sealing my scars from the burning bleeds. Never a doubt, though freaky and bizarre Keeping me company, my compass star.
Said in a promise, you will never leave Faith in my heart, I’ll always believe. Up so high, standing where you are Watching over me, my compass star.
Visions of you remain crystal clear Never far away, you are always near. Memories I saved and put into a jar Sacred and precious, my compass star.
Written in poetry and promises kept Sealed in my heart and tears I wept. Darkened at night, shinning from afar Always there for me, my compass star.
Written by Catherine Mellen
Wishing all safe surroundings, good health and remember to always shoot for the moon, even if you miss, you will land among the stars ⭐
Writing is in my blood, it always was. I just never had a chance to be me. Until one day I became a needle in a haystack. And now my words spill onto the pages like a bird finally Flying Free…
Survivor’s Mind: When Childhood Trauma and Poetry Collide.
A window into the world of childhood trauma, family secrets and inside the mind of a survivor… Poetically Written
May these poems bring comfort to those who can relate and an understanding to those who don’t.
The darkest depths of a survivors mind Seeps the horror of an inhumane kind.
Coming this fall… The story behind these poems in… A Childhood Tragedy Under A Mother’s Watch Part One of a two part memoir. From Lowell, Massachusetts, this is my true story of horrific inhumane abuse, cruelty and one girl’s desperation for survival. Find my books on the Amazon app.
I stood my ground but didn’t move forward. I spoke my truth but stayed in silence. I kept my pride but hid behind my dignity. I was a survivor but lived a victim.
I no longer live in a bubble created by a society so filled with shame, silence and secrets. No Apologies
I have recieved many message in regards to my birth mothers obituary. I am glad I was omitted from it and yes my children’s names do not belong. I have no desire to correct their wrong doings. I was emailed the first draft layout of my memoir and the first page reads.. ‘I am the third daughter and seventh child to a woman whose lies would last longer than the amount of children she would claim to have had.’ Her obituary has proved that to be true. I feel no hate towards her or her three surviving children but rather a hurt and disappointment that I will feel for the rest of my life. I had to fight not to be abused, raped or killed by my abuser… A fight that made me lose my family, but a fight I have no regrets fighting for.
You can trod me in this very dirt, but still, like dust, I will rise ~ Maya Angelou
Struggling to make ends meet Happens on every street Barely enough to get by Unpaid bills and funds run dry.
American Dream, where did it go? Was it a lie, for the world to know? Stress piles high, demand is too much The American Dream, I just can’t touch.
Rent is due, kids need clothes Shopping for bargains is how it goes. American Dream, is what I was told But rarely do I see it, actually unfold.
Homeless and Mental Health Security from the Commonwealth Jobless rate and disability A loss beyond our ability.
I look out the window of the American Dream Thinking it was a lie or so it does seem American Dream, where are you now? Were you a lie we all believed in some how? I’ll close my eyes and dream of my home An American myth, I ponder alone.
My book made it to round 3. Thank you to everyone who voted, who will vote again or just saw this post and thought, ‘Damn, I’ll vote too.’ 😎 Only 25 make it through this round and I am currently in #20. Can I get a.. vote ⚘please 💞
May is mental health awareness month. People will always notice the change in your attitude towards them, but they never notice it was their behavior that changed you. Remember to always take care of yourself even when you get a visit from… Hello darkness my old friend I’ve come to talk with you again. Because a vision softly creeping, left its seeds while I was sleeping. And the vision that was planted in my brain, still remains.
Within the sound of silence… #mentalhealth#awareness
My book Survivor’s Mind has made through to Round 2… Thank you to everyone who voted 💞 I could use those votes again to make it through to round 3… Please 😎
I never longed for my mother’s love because the love she showed me was cruel, harmful and inhumane.
Though I never had love from my mother, I was lucky enough to witness what a mom is in the so many friend’s whose mother’s were just that, a mom.
I lived in so many homes when I was a kid and in every one of those homes there was a mom, grandparent or guardian who was feeding me, putting a roof over my head, giving me chores, buying my hygiene products,including me in their family holidays, they let me cry, made me laugh and most of all, they showed me love.
I hate the memories my birth mother made of my childhood. So to long for her love was impossible because it was never there and though she gave me birth, she did not give me life.
I lived most of my life feeling guilty for not forgiving or forgetting my birth mother of her treatment towards me. So many good moms taken so soon in death and there was my mother alive and well.
A simple conversation can need a world of explaining and sometimes it was easier to say my mother was deceased rather than explain why I don’t have a relationship with her in my adulthood.
I tried in my twenties and I gave her nine years, but the lies, deceit and lack of responsibility, accountability and empathy was too overwhelming as I raised my children as far away from that lady as I could.
I had to grow up and learn to love myself enough to know she could not be in my life as just the look of her face was nothing but a reminder of a lifetime of horrifying flashbacks and horrible horrible memories.
It’s not that I disrespect my birth mother but more of, I respect myself and did what was best for me. Almost twenty years later, I have no regrets.
I thought about should I ever run into her out in public, she would be just another old lady who I would hold the door open for.
I’m hurt but I’m not cruel. I feel pain but I still love. I am nothing like my birth mother but I am everything she wasn’t.
I have empathy and sadness knowing how lonely a world her life must have been to think it was ok to stand by a man as she stood by her boyfriend for all those years. A man who left her just months after I didn’t come back home.
If you have a good mom, like the one I am to my kids or the so many good moms there are in this world… Give her an extra hug for me ♡
Its mom’s like me and you who once took in my birth mothers daughter…. And I thank God everyday for mom’s like us ⚘ I may not have had a mother, but I was blessed with love from so many other moms… That it made not having that one mom, so much better knowing I was blessed with so much more ♡
Thank you for reading me, peace and blessings to all.
And a Happy Mother’s Day to all the mom’s, Stepmoms, Foster mom’s and Fur baby mom’s out there ❤
Over the next six weeks I will be detailing the events of my life from 1981-1985 and the 2015-2016 Repressed Memories which sent me straight to my hometown police department.
1981..
Later that afternoon my friends mother informed me, “Your mother is home from work.” She also let me know that I could return if I didn’t feel safe. I left my friends house thinking I should just turn around and go back inside but I saw my mother outside of our home. I walked across the street, “I’m not going inside with your boyfriend there,” I yelled to her. “Get in,” she snapped at me as she got into her car. I sat in the passenger seat and questioned, “Where are we going?” But I was answered with a question, “What the heck did you say to her?” my mother questioned me. A bit confused, I questioned her answer with a question, “Say to who?” My mother quickly answered, “Your friends mother.” “She called me at work,” she continued. Like a light bulb shining bright above my head, I quickly answered my mother, “Oh her,” I said with an ear to ear smile. “I told her everything,” I continued. The remainder of the ride went quiet as my questions of where we were going went unanswered. We pulled up outside her cousin Terry’s house where I was sent upstairs to say hello to the teenage twin sisters. After a few minutes, I went downstairs to see my mother but she was gone. “You’re staying for two weeks,” Terry informed me. “Didn’t your mother tell you?” she continued. I looked at the green trash bag sitting on the kitchen floor as I answered her question, “No she didn’t tell me.” I grabbed the green trash bag which contained items my mother packed and headed upstairs to the bedroom the twins shared. Inside the bag were winter clothes I had outgrown. Luckily the twins had some clothes to hand down to me. I had passed my 6th grade school year due to my injuries preventing Dave from assaulting me and allowing me the time to complete my school work which my mother had picked up on a weekly basis. But as the date of my 6th grade graduation came and went, I realized I was abandoned by my mother. I was never able to return back to school nor did I attend my 6th grade graduation. Those two weeks went into two months and my mother never called me nor did she return any of her cousin Terry’s phone calls.
In late August 1981, Terry caught me and her daughters swimming in the above ground pool while it was raining. Her daughters were grounded and I was being dropped off to my mother on Pleasant Street. She informed me that I was a good kid and she was only returning me because, “Kids belong with their mother.” My mother was outside on the front steps as Terry pulled up and the look on her face only showed how upset she was to see her cousin and I in the car. I was excited to see my friends and actually glad to be home. I quickly got out of the car, grabbed my duffel bag of new hand me down clothes given to me by Terry’s daughters and made a quick run up my front door steps. Just two steps up, I quickly stopped as I saw through the screen door, Dave’s feet sticking up from his recliner chair. “Why is he still here?” I yelled at my mother who was talking with Terry shortly before she drove away. I moved away from the steps and questioned my mother again, “Why is he here?” “You need to call Sandi,” my mother answered me, “Her freaking mother’s been calling all summer,” she continued. I immediately began running towards Sandi’s house when I heard my mother yell, “She moved.” I then walked back to where my mother was standing. “I’m not going in there with him there,” I said. My mother told me to wait on the sidewalk as she went inside to get Sandi’s phone number. I felt so heart broken as I waited outside of my home, while Dave sat comfortably inside. My mother soon came outside and informed me that Dave was sleeping in his chair. “He hasn’t seen you,” she told me. “Go in quietly and call Sandi,” she said with a smile. “Get her address and ask if you can sleep over,” she continued. I grabbed the paper she handed me and I quietly sneaked into my own home and walked into the kitchen where I called my friend Sandi. I felt so insulted and unwanted while I talked quietly on the phone. As I headed back out the front door, Dave had awoken and stood up from his chair when he saw me walk towards the door. He charged at me as my brothers blocked the doorway. My mother yelled for me to be quicker and she hurried out the door behind me. We got in her car, I gave her the address Sandi told me and as she drove away, she started hitting, punching and smacking me. At one point, I grabbed her arm and screamed, “Stop hitting me.” My mother was so mad, “He wasn’t suppose to see you,” she snapped at me. She continued yelling the whole ride about the trouble maker I was. All I could do was ask her, “Why do you hate me so much?” But she never answered me. That one night sleep over turned out to be a ten month long stay as I lived the reality that I was shunned by my family because I didn’t want Dave to hurt me anymore.
… In late August 1981, a young girl disappeared from Lowell. I went off to live with another family while the home on Pleasant Street remained happy for my birth mother. In April, the young girl’s remains were found. By May, my birth mother was moved out of Pleasant Street but my abuser, oldest brother and a hole in a cellar wall remained. In May and June 1982, two more girls disappeared. Though the remains of one were found and one remains missing thirty-nine years later, all three cases remain unsolved…
In late June 1982 after school was out for summer vacation I was returned to my birth mother, but she no longer lived on Pleasant Street. She now lived on Butler Avenue. I was given a wobbly cot, a spot in the upstairs hallway and a reminder that I wasn’t wanted or welcomed back. The next morning I questioned where my abuser was. My birth mother informed me that my abuser David Umpleby was still living on Pleasant Street with my oldest brother and that he would be going to jail in a few weeks for what he had done to me. As a twelve year old, I was happy to hear that. I then questioned where was all my stuff from my bedroom on Pleasant Street. That was when my birth mother explained all the photos, film and sex toys were buried inside the cellar wall on Pleasant Street and the rest of my belongings went out to the trash. I had a bowl of vomit resting in my throat as I heard my birth mothers words, I was horrified yet feeling so worthless and small. She always reminded me that people look down on kids who were abused and this day was no different as she explained her reasons why she let Dave bury what he did. She emotionally, mentally and psychologically shamed me into silence since 1975 and as a twelve year old in 1982, she was no different.
A week later my oldest brother moved into Butler Avenue and our mother went to retrieve the house key from Dave before they took him off to jail. ( Being only twelve years old, that made sense.) When she returned to the Butler Avenue apartment, she ran straight up the stairs and grabbed me by my arms as she yanked and pushed me into her bedroom. She shut her bedroom door and immediately became horrified. “He took those freaking rocks out,” she yelled before breaking down in tears. I was confused as I stood before her but before I could question her, she jumped up, wiped her face and became flustered as she paced her bedroom floor. “What did he do, what did he do?” she questioned herself out loud before grabbing me by my cheeks and squeezing so hard her fingers slipped into my mouth. “You keep your mouth shut about that cellar,” she screamed into my face. Then she told me she put all the rocks back into the wall and how it was all buried good. “No one will find it,” she said in a bit of reassuring herself. She then insisted that I would be the one in trouble if the cellar wall was found because it was me in those photos and film as she again reminded me, “It’s all buried good.” I just looked at her in confusion, disbelief and horror. “Like my body would have been,” I said to her before running out of her bedroom and into a life given to me.
Within one month, I found myself living with the neighbors on Butler Avenue where I lived for two months as my own mother informed me I was dead to her. (I told a lady I babysat for what kind of mother I had) I went off to live in a few more homes before living back with my friend and her family after they found out I was abandoned again.
My abuser dug that wall out for me. He was not finished with me when I ran in the summer of 1981 nor was he finished with his evil ways. I was not his first victim nor was I his last, but I may be his only surviving one.
Did my abuser really go to jail? Why was my birth mother so mortified over the rocks being taken out of the cellar wall a second time? What else did Dave Umpleby bury inside that wall? If I didn’t go inside that wall, then who did?
Forty years ago this week I was in excruciating pain from injuries I suffered in the hands of my abuser. The emotional, mental and psychological abuse from my own family were still in the beginning stages… Join me next week for Part 3 Punished and Abused: When Repressed Memories Speak
You can catch my full story, conversations and secrets in my soon to be released two part memoir… Part one: A Childhood Tragedy Under A Mother’s Watch details the years 1975-1982 will be available in Fall 2021 Part two: A Life Given To Me picks up where part one ends 1982-2019 and will be available in summer 2022
Please feel free to stalk my social media accounts at …
My book Survivor’s Mind is in a book cover of the month competition. First round is May 1st through May 6.
It only cost a few minutes of your time. Thank you to everyone who voted, everyone who will vote and everyone who just saw this article and thought, damn I should vote too 😎
Part One of a six part timeline… Punished and Abused: When Repressed Memories Speak 💔 As I endure the 40 year anniversary that changed my life forever, please know I was only a kid and could never imagine the true horror my silence may have caused others. A horrifying reality I live everyday
Over the next six weeks I will be detailing the events of my life from 1981-1985 and the 2015-2016 Repressed Memories which sent me straight to my hometown police department.
Forty years ago this week, I was severely beaten in the attic of my childhood home. My two older brothers pulled my abuser away from my eleven year old body that laid in a pool of my own blood. Then they called our mother at her work, King’s Department Store.
It was never about what my abuser did to me, it was always about me staying quiet. My stomach area bruised black, my face deformed, teeth were kicked out, ribs were broken, my neck bruised in handprint. No one called the police. One brother said, “Wow, he really fucked you up.” The other brother said, “We don’t call cops on family.”
For six years prior, I was always smacked, dismissed, grounded and punished for not wanting to be abused and for speaking about it. This day was no different, as I hid so well from my abuser for many hours, by the time he did find me, he changed his violent sexual assault into a violent physical assault. I was an eleven year old girl, he was a forty year old monster who had been torturing my childhood for years… And No One called the police but as weeks went by, my birth mother insisted, then demanded that I forgive my abuser for hurting me. I can still see the brat in me as I sat confined to my bed and screamed, “Noooo,” into their faces standing over my bed.
Once I healed enough to get the ok to go outside, I was first shown the cellar wall and what my abuser was allowed to do while I healed from my injuries caused by him. As my birth mother explained the consequences of blabbing my mouth, my abuser insisted I jump in and try it out. I looked horrified, mortified and confused at the woman standing before me in hopes for some understanding. “Someone will find you in twenty or thirty years,” my abuser continued with a chuckle as he swept up his perfectly dug out tunnel going into the cellar wall and under the sidewalk of Pleasant Street with a small broom & dustpan. He laughed loudly as he spoke about keeping my arms, “Those are my souvenirs,” he praised proudly.
I looked at my birth mother, I looked at my monster abuser and I looked straight ahead at that cellar wall with a freshly dug out hole and then I ran as fast as I could up the cellar stairs. I was still healing from the multiple if not all ribs being broken, so it wasn’t like I could run fast. I returned to my bedroom where I stayed awake the whole night, I moved my bureau to block my door, I changed into clothes, tied my sneakers and wondered what could I do… I was only eleven years old. I thought running away was throwing your clothes in a blanket, tying the blanket onto a stick and running. I didn’t have a stick and it still hurt to run. Gosh, the shit that went through my eleven year old brain that night, with the one question I asked myself over and over again… Why didn’t they call the cops? Why?
The next morning, I heard my bureau being moved and my birth mother waving her hands. “It’s only me,” she said before informing me that she was going to work. “Just stay in your room,” she told me. “What?” I yelled as I immediately went into defense mode and chased her out my bedroom door, down the stairs and straight out the front door at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning. She ordered me back inside the house and I begged her not to leave me home with her boyfriend… but she just drove away. I watched in panic as I saw her car drive away. I turned around and looked at the front door of my childhood home. I knew my two older brothers were home but that never stopped my abuser and before I knew it, I yelled, “No way.” I ran a few houses down on the opposite side of the street where one of my friend’s lived and I rang the doorbell, then I knocked and rang the bell again.
Later that morning, my friend’s mother asked if I could do her a favor. “Sure,” I eagerly answered her question. “Will you go home and grab a couple of cigarettes from Dave,” she questioned. “I already called him,” she continued. My smiling eager to help look wiped off my face as my friend’s mother questioned me, “What’s going on over there?” My eyes only looked to the floor. My friends mother then assured me that she would stand on her porch and watch me as I walked home to retrieve the cigarettes Dave said he’d give to her. I walked slowly as I kept looking back to see my friend and her mom on their front porch watching me. I opened my screen door then the front door, I stepped inside the doorway and saw Dave sitting at his recliner chair with cigarettes sticking out of his closed hand. I stretched to reach but his hand was out of reach. “Shut the door,” he told me. “Please just give me the cigarettes,” I said. But he demanded I shut the door, “Then I’ll give them to you,” he insisted. So I shut the front door.
He immediately jumped up, “I’ll bring her the cigarettes,” he said as he charged at me. I knew if I stepped back to open the door, he would grab me so I booked it down the hallway. “Someone’s going down the cellar,” he yelled as I ran into the kitchen, through the dining room and into the living room. He caught me by my clothes and we both fell onto the floor. He grabbed my legs as I kicked and kicked. “Ouch, you bitch,” he yelled. I looked and saw him grab his jaw. ( I either kicked him or he bit his tongue) I immediately jumped up and ran out the door. I ran straight to my friend’s and up her front steps. “I couldn’t get the cigarettes,” I told my friends mom. But she didn’t care about the cigarettes, she was more concerned about me. Shortly afterwards I was told of plain clothes policemen who were outside wanting to talk with me. But for over six years, it was drilled in my head that my abuser knew everyone on the police force, so I declined. Then my friends mom told me she called my mother at her work…
Over thirty years later, I would learn that phone call is what saved my life.
What happened to me later that day? What did my birth mother think I said to my friends mother to make her call her at work? What is buried inside that cellar wall? A timeline of the monster my birth mother harbored and the multiple unsolved murders in my hometown of Lowell Massachusetts 1981-1982
I never grew up to forget the childhood I lived (Something I was told would happen) But I did grow up and forget all my own ‘family’s’ lack of actions did play into my childhood and all they did know of the horrifying abuse I endured for years. They knew, they always knew and not one of them ever showed empathy, support, acknowledgement or accountability, no matter how much I begged and pleaded for it.
Forty years ago this week, I was punished for not wanting to be abused… Join me next week as I continue telling my story of Punished and Abused: When Repressed Memories Speak
I was sixteen years old when my friend Jon hugged me as he explained the woman who left me so broken was never a mother to me but rather just my birth mother. I can still hear his words, “She’s not your mother,” he said in disgust. “She’s your birth mother,” he continued to speak disgustingly. My heart felt so broken, a hallowed hole in my gut as vomit rested in my throat and tears fell from my eyes. Deep down I knew he was right and it sucked to know there was not a thing I could do about it.
Jon continued to remind me after my birth mother was caught in 1987 for stealing over five years of social security checks. Checks she collected after my father fell ill to cancer and after he passed away in 1983… Money I could have used in the homes I lived in.
I see the photos and quotes on social media… ‘If your mom is alive.’ ‘Love your mother.’ ‘You only get one.’ At times I feel like I am insulting these friends who post this stuff, because the truth is… My birth mother is alive and I choose to not have her in my life.
I never longed for my mother’s love because the love she showed me was cruel, harmful and inhumane. Though I never had love from my mother, I was lucky enough to witness what a mom is in the so many friend’s whose mother’s were just that… A Mom.
I lived in so many homes when I was a kid and in every one of those homes there was a mom, grandparent or guardian who was feeding me, putting a roof over my head, giving me chores, buying my hygiene products and including me in their family holidays. They let me cry, made me laugh and most of all, they showed me love.
I hate the memories my birth mother made of my childhood. So to long for her love was impossible because it was never there and though she gave me birth, she did not give me life.
I lived most my life feeling guilty for not forgiving or forgetting my birth mother of her treatment towards me. So many good moms taken so soon in death and there was my mother alive and well.
A simple conversation can need a world of explaining and sometimes it was easier to say my mother was deceased rather than explain why I don’t have a relationship with her in my adulthood. I tried in my twenties and I gave her nine years, but the lies, deceit and lack of responsibility, accountability and empathy was too overwhelming as I raised my children as far away from that lady as I could.
I had to grow up and learn to love myself enough to know she could not be in my life, as just the look of her face was nothing but a reminder of a lifetime of horrifying flashbacks and horrible, horrible memories.
It’s not that I disrespect my birth mother but more of, I respect myself and did what was best for me. Almost twenty years later, I have no regrets. I thought about should I ever run into her out in public, she would be just another old lady who I would hold the door open for.
I’m hurt but I’m not cruel. I feel pain but I still love. I am nothing like my birth mother but I am everything she wasn’t.
I have empathy and sadness knowing how lonely a world her life must have been to think it was ok to stand by a man as she stood by her boyfriend for all those years. A man who left her just months after I didn’t come back home.
If you have a good mom, like the one I am to my kids or the so many good moms there are in this world… Give her an extra hug for me.
Its mom’s like me and you who once took in my birth mothers daughter…. And I thank God everyday for mom’s like us ⚘ I may not have had a mother, but I was blessed with love from so many other moms… That it made not having that one mom, so much better knowing I was blessed with so much more ♡
Mother’s Day is around the corner and please remember, not everyone has a mom… even if she is alive. My friend Jon continued to remind me of the woman who was nothing more than a birth mother to me and though he has been gone for nearly three decades, I can still hear his words and feel his hugs.
From my Survivor’s Mind book… A poem I know Jon would be so proud to see printed.
Birth Mother
How can a mother not even bother A child is being abused? Her cruel words came in chords Always left me confused.
Life would derail if he went to jail So his secret she kept All the abuse was an excuse Her reasoning to accept.
Her nasty ways shamed my days Her hands stayed out of reach. Ignored my cries, she told her lies No lessons did she teach.
With every attack protection did lack It was like she didn’t care Lasting results, broken adults A childhood left in despair
Losing the count of the amount Children she did not raise Being none other than a birth mother Are words I’ll always praise
Thank you to @theorganicpoet for showcasing my poem #OnceUponAStaircase on their website along with other great poems from poets all around the globe Join @theorganicpoet and get your poetry read.
So much horror, silence and secrets buried inside one cellar wall. All things buried will one day resurface along with the horrifying actions of my abuser and all my birth mother allowed.
Who thinks it’s impossible to survive without family.
I’ve told my story and I will continue to repeat
Until child abuse awareness is heard on every street.
I’ve told my story and the reasons I’m alive
I’ve told my story, so others can also survive.
From my Survivor’s Mind: When Childhood Trauma and Poetry Collide. A poetic window into my two-part memoir. Childhood Trauma, Family Secrets and inside the mind of a Survivor.
Now available in ebook, paperback and on the Kindle app. A dark and poetic look into the world of childhood trauma, family secrets and inside the mind of a survivor. Written through tears and empowered by strength, each poem amplifies the voices of the shame, silence and secrets that accompanies the lifelong struggles of being a statistic in a world full of abused children. A window into my upcoming memoir, A Childhood Tragedy Under A Mother’s Watch. May these poems bring comfort and strength to those who can relate and an understanding to those who don’t.
Do you love Poetry? Do you love Christmas? New 2021 Christmas in Poetry Land is available now ❤ First of many books I will be entering into this world over the next few year’s. Next up is Survivor’s Mind (Where Childhood Trauma and Poetry Collide) ✍ Find me on Amazon and be sure to follow my author’s page to get notified when my next book is available.
I dipped my toes in the water and became a published author. Available in ebook, paperback and free with the Kindle app
A delightful addition to the holiday season. From the legend of the Mistletoe kiss, lazy elves, anti-bullying Rudolph, a Santa sleigh ride and more. This collection of holiday poems will surely warm your heart.
May you never be too old to search the skies on Christmas Eve
What is buried inside the cellar wall of my childhood home? Unfortunately I had to grow up and become the older sibling I once needed in order to share my story.
