I Am Not My Past:

 

Defining Yourself

 {Guest Post by: Chynna Laird, author of White Elephants}

When a child is abused or victimized, it changes a tiny part of him forever. That much is true. He comes to believe that he actually deserves the treatment that was bestowed on him. He thinks that, maybe, if he was cuter/smarter/faster/better behaved than the abuser wouldn’t hurt him anymore. We all know this couldn’t be further from the truth but this is the mindset these children fall into. And when we don’t keep reminding the child who he truly is underneath it all, we are inadvertently reinforcing those negative thoughts. Allow me to explain.

Whenever people found out what was going on in our house, or what happened to me specifically, one of two things happened. Some people focused on all of the statistics that say people who abuse become abusers or that we have to be watched closely because we’ll become addicts or hurt ourselves or, God forbid, commit suicide. This is a dangerous stereotype because, as with all stereotypes, they exist due to misinformation and misunderstanding. And when a person hears these stereotypes often enough, they end up believing them and living up to them. This line of thinking keeps these children living as victims rather than as a child who just happened to go through this horrible thing but who was brave enough to go on.

Others simply became so uncomfortable they wouldn’t interact with me. They didn’t know what to say to me or how to act around me and avoided me. That hurt tremendously because it made me feel like, maybe, I did deserve what happened to me if no one else wanted to be around me either. Again, this happens because folks just aren’t informed or understand the situations well enough. Taking the time to understand what these kids go through in general, as well as the child’s specific situation, will help ease any discomfort. Avoiding or ignoring them only intensifies their own insecurities.

I understand that not everyone knows what to do when finding out a child they know has been abused, neglected or otherwise victimized. The main thing you can help with is restoring the three basic things every child should have: self-esteem, self-worth and self-confidence. All of these are broken down next to nothing when they’ve been abused. And those are the main components of helping these kids define their own paths.

A dear friend of mine, and the CEO of a local child protection charity I work closely with, told me once that she never reads the files for the children that come to her center before she’s met with them. She sits down with the child, playing games with them or talking about what they enjoy doing. Once she’s gotten to know the child inside and out, only then does she finally read the file to learn his or her history. Think of the significance of that for a moment.

By sitting down with the child first, my friend is seeing only the child. She’s understanding who he is, what his interests are and what he likes or doesn’t. She takes the time to figure out what that child is good at and draws that out. She relates to him at his comfort level, treating him like any other child she might meet up with. And doing this without knowing what he’s gone through is what she calls, ‘Defining him by who he or she is rather than whatever labels are attached to the child through their experiences.’

I can’t tell you how much that means to these kids. We can’t change or erase those experiences as much as we’d like to. But what we can do is remind him of all the good in him because no person can take that away from him completely. The way you can do that is to follow what my friend does above.

Plant the seeds of self-esteem by reminding her she is worth spending time with. Let her know that her presence matters and that she is still just a kid—a fantastic kid. She needs to see and believe that in order to keep going. Don’t worry, she will.

As that grows, nurture it so the first signs of self-worth start to sprout. Remind her of all the great things she can do, helping her to draw on that for courage and strength when things get tough. Show her that despite what’s happened to her, she is supposed to be here and get her to see all of her ‘Can Do’s’.

Once you see those take strong root, you’ll finally see the blossom of self-confidence develop and grow. When he knows others believe in him, he will believe in himself. Self-confidence isn’t just thinking you can do something, it’s what gives us the tenacity to try, and keep trying, until we feel bigger, stronger and more powerful than what’s trying to scare us from moving forward.

We aren’t born with any of these things. We’re supposed to learn and develop them from our caregivers. But when a child is abused, they don’t have the chance to develop properly and neither does the child. But children are resilient when given the proper support. Trust me on this. I wouldn’t be here today without my loving support network surrounding me each and every day.

Even if you don’t know what else to do, you have the ability to make a difference by helping to nurture these traits in these kids. We can all do that. By doing so, you’re giving them a most precious gift of all: the ability to define themselves and to say, “I am not my past!” And that is powerful.

Chynna Laird

CHYNNA LAIRD – is a psychology major, freelance writer and multi award-winning author living in Edmonton, Alberta with her partner, Steve, and their three daughters [Jaimie (almost nine), Jordhan (six), and baby Sophie (three)] and baby boy, Xander (five). Her passion is helping children and families living with Sensory Processing Disorder and other special needs.

You’ll find her work in many online and in-print parenting, inspirational, Christian and writing publications in Canada, United States, Australia, and Britain. In addition, she’s authored an award-winning children’s book (I’m Not Weird, I Have SPD), two memoirs (the multi award-winning, Not Just Spirited: A Mom’s Sensational Journey With SPD and White Elephants), a Young Adult novel (Blackbird Flies), an adult Suspense/Thriller (Out Of Sync to be released March 2012), and a Young Adult Suspense/Mystery/Paranormal/Sweet Romance (Undertow, to be released 2012). She’s also working on a sequel to Not Just Spirited called Not Just Spirited: The Journey Continues and a few other projects in the works for Middle Grade and Young Adult readers.

Please visit Chynna’s website at www.chynna-laird-author.com, as well as her blogs at www.the-gift-blog.com and www.seethewhiteelephants.com, to get a feel for her work and what inspires her.

a poem a pic a day: day 19

Together

we laugh

we cry

we talk in movie quotes

we dream of owning a home

rocking on the porch with our teeth in a jar

hold my hand, so small in yours

hold my heart

so surrendered so long ago

our gems grow and glisten in their own light

it will be us

in the end

######

Well, day 30. I completed 19 out of 30 days. Not bad for a first shot at this a pic and poem a day. To those of you who write poetry regularly, I SALUTE you. Damn, it’s hard. But refreshing and emotional and soul-searching.

I’ll continue to search my soul… and maybe share those musings here in poetry form. But for now, back to our regularly scheduled program.

Was there ever one?? ; )

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

what did you think of the poetry month theme? and the pics to correspond? Wanna see more of this type on my blog? I nurture my creative spirit and tap into that deep dusty place where inspiration lies, but since I’m sharing it with the world, it’s only polite to ask your opinions. So, thoughts?

a poem a pic a day: day 18

in the gutter

of my mind

my heart

my future

with the leaves of winter

wilted, mush, wet

cold and alone and swept

to the gutter

wash away last season’s regret

old ideas and conversations

rake out my fear

my anger

my pain

just don’t walk on by

a poem a pic a day: day 17

Tween then and now

Today

my name is

silky purple giggle

Tomorrow

my name will be

shunned and bruised

top of the pyramid with dimples on both cheeks

cheerleader with her period

whispers and sleep overs, conjure spirits, talk of first kisses

I experiment with makeup, imagine my first kiss

think I’m in the clique, think I’m the shit

she still harasses me about not owning  a banana clip

I’m center in their ring of taunts

wearing a dingy pink puffy coat

Paiselys are cool, aren’t they?

 

a poem a pic a day: day 16

Awoken Among The Dead

by: David Michael Campbell III

You don’t know how it started,
How it came to be this way,
For nothing from before the Awakening
Can be recalled to mind,
Almost as if it had never even
Existed to begin with, but who knows,
Perhaps it didn’t…

It all began as your eyelids,
Oh, seeming so heavy after what a journey,
Flutter open, and trying to comprehend your
Surroundings, you sit up, and feel something
Warm, and oddly vacant of the life it once
Brought.

You do not need to glance down to
Realize it’s the reddest of all bloods, not
Even beginning to dry yet.
You lay in the grass of a large courtyard,
Tall, rubble style buildings tower around
You and stare down fiercely with flaming
Exterior features.

But between the blotches of blood and
Garbage littering the once beauty of the
Courtyard, lie bodies,
Scattered and torn gruesomely,
Projecting the most grotesque of images
That man can imagine.

Weak stomached and unable to take the
Misery, you double over to vomit, but hold
It down with a gag or two when you
Realize you are starring into a fraction of cracked
Glass, and you vomit anyways, not capable of
The will power after seeing your own face.

You wipe your mouth from the rancid
Taste with the sleeve of your white coat
You wear, linen and matching long, scratchy pants.
Trying to recreate the reflection of your face
In your mind makes you wish you had never
Woken up, although that should be the
Least of your reasons why.

You recall a bald head, infested with long,
Bulging scars and veins, seeming as if they will
Burst all over the rest of your scalp.
Your nose is crooked and tilted slightly upward,
And as for your mouth, the corners are stitched
Sloppily and barely, disabling you ability to
Fully open your mouth.

Your eyes seem to be the worst remark
Of horror, for no pupil exists on either of them,
And the surrounding area remains bloodshot and
Hinting a slight tone of yellow, fading into
A whitish blend of colors towards the center.

Shakily, you hobble up and plant your feet
Firmly on the ground.
A quick scan of the surface area shows all
The limp, lifeless bodies to have the same
Features of yours in a general sense, and also
The exact same apparel, looking past the difference
In blood splatters and various tears and wounds.

You look up at the buildings, only to
See more bodies hanging over the edges of the broken
Windows far above, their arms swaying in a some what
Gentle sort of breeze.
Foundations look as if they are starting to
Crumble and collapse.
Flames flicker throughout, randomly, and
Other then the occasional crash or bending of falling
Concrete or steel, silence fills the
Crowd of the dead like a plague.

Behind you, three enormous crosses stand,
Burnt, black, and blowing away with the whistling wind
As ash and faint traces of smoke, spiraling upwards.
One, crisped skeleton like body is stapled to
Each of the crosses,
Jaws hanging open in an endless scream,
Eyes nothing more than pits of everlasting
Blackness, just as their nimble, twig like bodies and
Limbs portray quite sickly.

Shocked, you stumble back and fall over one
Of the thousands of bodies, only to make
A sound similar to that of a scream, and jump back up,
Then hurry out of the courtyard and
Crashing down a door into one of the skyscrapers.

You curl up in a blood soaked corner and
Cry in your hands, and think in between sniffs
Of sorrow: “Where am I? What am I?”, for
Because of your monstrous voice and identical
Appearance to the dead things, gender cannot
Be determined.

After all this trauma, you cannot take it,
“For how had it come to be such as all this?”
You think as you start to climb the
Stairs up the building, maneuvering around bodies
And gaps that lead all the way back to the
Ground below.

“Why must I be the one to endure this
Purest of all tortures?” You think as you
Perch yourself on the windowsill, the
Jagged glass sinking into your already blood
Covered, bare feet.

And with the extension of your legs, you
Go flying through the air,
The leap of faith, the tragedies of buildings
Pass by in a sudden blur of vision,
And as you become eye level with the three burnt bodies,
Hanging form the crosses, time seems to slow,
Almost to an utter stop.
A whisper escapes your stitched mouth,
And a tear flows from your cheek.
“Why have all these people died?”

Suddenly, the first body on the cross opens its
Mouth, and yells in a raspy scream:
“It hath cometh when all of mankind
Had seemed to begin to deserve all that
Hath rained down upon this land!”
And its jaw slowly closes and does not
Move again that you can easily tell.

You look over to the second body on the cross
Just as it speaks in the same voice as the first:
“You, out of all the others that lie before me, have
Been thought to have the richest, strongest soul,
Although, now as you fall, I doubt us three had made
The right assumption,” and just as the first,
It closes its jaw and stares far ahead at
Nothing in particular.

You don’t even have time to gaze over to
The third body when it speaks in the same
Pitch as the first two, although much less polite:
“Why have these people all died, you ask?
Aye, well they have done the same as you
Are doing right this instant, youngest one!”
And all three skeletons mouths open
Crookedly to utter a hardy, yet quite terrifying
Screech of a laugh as you near the ground.

Nothing more is remembered.
No feeling of impact or pain.
The Others have told you it was quite the
Same experience with them as well,
And although they have no one more to watch,
Effortlessly trying and killing themselves, all
The same way,
They do enjoy the company of one more, just
As they always have.

a poem a pic a day: day 15

Pat^tern*s & Tex+tur’es

BUMPY ~   lacey ~  smooth

Silky@  SCRATCHY @ stitched

grainy ^ marbled  ^veined

FloRAl *  gauzy  * translucent

granite # plaid # gingham

crisscross + quilted + weave

embroidered…ruBBer…pitted

rivets % grooves  % cerAMic

platinum ` stainless steel  ` wavy

curvy ~ loopy ~ rough

soft $ fluffy $ grainy

ripples > ragged >> raw edge

beveled ; linoleum ; pergo

paisley | puffy | leather

pleather } plastic }  rust

a poem a pic a day: day 14

Childhood Times

Few worries

overflowing curiosities

Imagining, drawing, singing,

T*w*I*r*L*i*N*g

Laughing , skipping,

P^L^a^Y^i^n^G

Gentle play and toys to build

Make Believe

We’ve been telling stories all our lives with soldiers and Barbies and pretty ponies;

with dress-up frocks

plastic guns and cars that roll

            race

                                                         and drop

                                                                                off

                                                                                                             into space