Confrontation of Past Wounds

Confrontation of Past Wounds

Each time you raised your hand to me

I'd close my eyes so I couldn't see.

Inside my mind I would always hide,

Each time you revealed your darker side.

I was only a child, why couldn't you see,

You should never have done what you did to me.

You hurt my body as well as my soul.

Did it just happen, or was it your goal?

You crushed my spirit and tarnished my life,

each time you used me as your wife.

The life you manipulated became an emotional hell,

From the first time you told me I shouldn't tell.

You said if I told, they would say it's a lie

until all I could do was sit alone and cry.

But you were wrong, people do believe,

now you're the only one you can ever deceive.

With regret I can never tell you how I feel

so I can learn to forgive you and begin to heal.

When you were met by angels at Heaven's gate,

I wonder what was decided to be your fate.

Were they merciful in wiping your slate clean of wrongs?

Or were the depths of Hades determined where you belong?

Sadly, my stolen youth I mourn more than your passing,

for your agony is over, while mine is ever lasting.

In all my years of dealing with anxiety, depression and fear, I have tried many things to help my inner wounds heal. Therapy, reading self-help books, meditation, and others. The one method that seemed the most promising to me would also be the hardest for me to utilize. The method consists of confronting the one who harmed. Basically it consists of telling the person how you feel about what they did to you, why you believe it was wrong, and that you are no longer frightened of them. Supposedly in doing this you gain back some of the control they robbed you of by showing strength and courage. It all sounded good to me.

My problem was that everytime I thought I was ready to confront my step-father, face to face, I would fly into a major panic attack and become physically ill. I mentioned this to my therapist and she suggested writing him a letter might be a viable option for me. I couldn't. I had so much to say to him that it kept all coming out in a jumbled, incoherent mess. That is where my poetry came in. Poetry allowed me to organize my feelings a clear and concise manner. I was very pleased with the results. But, again, my fear got the better of me and I dragged my heels. By the time I dredged up enough courage to give him the poem, I found out that he died.

In his passing, he robbed me of my chance at closure. I can never get back what he took from me. I wonder if I will ever feel whole. What can I do? I fear that I will be damaged goods for the rest of my life. I have run out of ideas on how to heal. I don't want to give up but what other choice do I have?