I was reading an article about the troubling amount of child abuse going on behind the closed doors of isolated quarantine. I wanted to share this I’d written. I had a very difficult childhood, in an extremely chaotic and upsetting home environment, dominated by an extremely manic, paranoid-schizophrenic, racist grandmother. Life was disrupted daily by her bizarre ravings, which continued from my childhood until her death in my high school years. Her daughter refused to institutionalize her. We just tried to hide her away, and when she’d get out — my adoptive father, and later I as well, apologized to the neighbors, the police, and the FBI for her insane backyard and telephone ramblings. We’d clean up the messes she’d make around tge neighborhood. She would chase any friends who tried to visit me away with brooms and mops, cursing horrendously while doing so. We lived a strange, isolated life because of her. I just escaped into fantasy. I survived and overcame this madness. I introduce you to my imaginary childhood friend that got me through it all. His name was Big Bob. In the heart of a terrified young boy, he was more than real…
my steady rock of safety
my captain of escape
you were always there
the amazing man of magic
the hero of the weak
defender of the helpless
my always gentle friend
when the footsteps in the hall
woke me in the night
I would feel you tug my hand
and under we would go
through the secret passage
you kept beneath my bed
to the waiting viking ships
and off to fight the dragons
in the land of snow and castles
carved from clear blue ice
in flowing robes of fur
we struck with swords of gold
you were very brave
in the face of fear
I knew you would appear
never laughing at my tears
when the grating metal rasp
of door latch in the dark
would bolt me from my sleep
you would have the horses ready
we would thunder off to dry gulch
to wrangle up our posse
save the townfolk from the bad guys
and return when all was calm
you were very swift
in a snap you would arrive
in time to get me out alive
helping me survive
below the ocean we would dive
in your crystal submarine
down to the coral world
marveling at the creatures
we would leave the sub
to swim among the wonders
to dart and spin and float
far from pain and worry
you were very smart
my midnight flight arranger
you knew to rocket us from danger
far from any evil stranger
we would soar to venus
in your special silver starship
or to some other distant planet
and do battle with space monsters
and when they all were slain
we would fly the milky way
circle round the bright star clusters
thankful to be weightless
no matter how afraid
I knew that you would find me
knew you’d never judge me
I knew how much you loved me
knew you’d have me back by day break
with the dark night far behind us
and the warmth of welcomed morning
would once again embrace us
the midnight footsteps now are quiet
the ships and rockets sailed away
no more trouble comes to dry gulch
the crystal sub so long in dry dock
my final adventure now unfolds
it’s time I go this one alone
you have traveled on ahead
all nightmares brought to stead
I’m not sure I ever thanked you
perhaps took your love for granted
without you I’d never made it
you are emblazoned ever in my heart
__________|*|__________
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I love this piece. Really good writing straight from the heart. Thank you for sharing such a painful and private part of yourself here. I’m sorry your childhood was fraught with peril, but thank God for your angel-friend!
That article I read in the Atlantic online really set me off Susan, so I dug up this old draft and revised it.u
The Atlantic is a quality publication so I’m sure they did a good job of investigation. What issue, Rob, I’d like to read it.
It was online last week on Thursday, as I remember. It came across my iPad through these Apple News alerts I get several times daily, and in the brief article they were referencing the Atlantic. I will do my best to dig back and find it Lisa. It was under the umbrella of “pandemic news items.
Found it. The article referenced was a past article in US News, not the Atlantic. It otiginated apoarently in Health News.
https://www.usnews.com/news/health-news/articles/2020-05-12/pandemic-lockdown-increases-child-abuse-risk
A brave share for sure, Rob. I guess I’m lucky to have escaped ever needing such assistance; I’m not sure I would have had such reserves to call upon.
You have no choice but to call on them Ron. Your emotions are too unformed the turn to much of snything, other thsn to pretend, “make believe”. Otherwise, you fall into a black hole, and get stuck there, confused and consumed by darkness. I still have a great deal of anger that I need to keep contsined, ehich broke free when my 18-year-old son Aaron was killed. But it is reasonably well capped again. Frequent “night terrors” still plague me. Freaks my wife out, and my son, daughter-in-law, and grandson Alex, with whom we live. Alex, at 7-years-old doesn’t fully understand, but he says, “PaPa, I am sorry you have bad dreams”. The fact that no dream is associated with my terrors eould confuse him, because he understands nightmares. I just tell him it is PaPa’s nightmares.
“when the footsteps in the hall
woke me in the night …
when the grating metal rasp
of door latch in the dark
would bolt me from my sleep …
[I] knew you’d never judge me”
These words make the fear and pain visceral. My heart goes out to all children who suffer within their home….I am so very sorry you had to go through this. I’m glad, as a child, you found a child’s way to escape, even if you could not escape physically. It seems these are words you needed to write. Thank you…..thank you for writing them.
First of sll, thank you Lillian for the love. Secondly, for the ones lucky enough to endure, and not be permanently damaged — one doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger… sadder, but stronger. I still love my melancholy, because it was how I felt, after safely enduring frightening situations as a child — it was a strange emotional shelter, a “numb” place to rest emotionally… because happiness wasn’t available, and guilt and confusion was painful.
To be locked up at home with your tormentor must be terrible… I wonder if you can find such a gallant protector … it takes some vivid fantasy I think… lovely writing.
Thank you Bjorn. Kids in that situation either combust, or find escape in fantasy. It takes a degree of good fortune and later love, to understand how not to be dangerously consumed by fantasy — to learn to use it as a positive tool, snd not a negative affliction. Some of the craziest madness in this wirld can be traced back to childhood traumas.
I like how you talk about getting beyond the trauma and the pitfalls along the way. 100% in agreement that about tracing it back…
I sm a poet Lisa, I must write about it at times. It was a deep current in my life, one in which I sm no longer actively trapped — but the feeling can be stirred up in certain situations.
Great!!! I’m so glad your imagination (and your imaginary friend and adventures) pulled you through your dark times, and that you are able to share it with us.
I pretended for years Ron, and it twisted me to a degree that took years to straighten out — with help. I still have kinks today, but one deals with it.
Dry Gulch was your River City, brother. This is introspection on an epic scale. I posted a “war poem” today, written in 1967. Hope you can read it. Blackthorne is up too.
I read you piece Glenn. Strong brother! Many types of battles, many types of wounds.
Like the concept of this piece Rob very much – a tribute to your hero, albeit an imaginary one… Thanks for an interesting and original read
You are welcome Scott.
It takes so much courage to write of pain like this. Bravo Rob for doing so. You never know who may read this and no longer feel alone because of something dreadful they endured.
It took many years to sort this out Linda, and thankfully I had the man who adopted me, to finally hear me, and turn so solidly into my corner. When a child is subjected to experience, over and over, the the hateful, terrifying ravings of a full-blown paranoid schizophrenic — and the one you try to turn to for shelter, will do nothing — because it’s her mother… you are fucked as a child. You reslly do not understand. You begin to think it’s your fault. You are too ashamed and fearfully uncertain to look outside the home for help, and too young to know how to cope anyway other than to escape completely into fantasy. My imagination is as strong as it is because it was exercised to the extreme for all of my pre-school childhood. Do I have deep seeded life long scars and issues — yes. Have I learned to cope – reasonably well. Does one outgrow this kind of trauma — with help, one learns to cope… and for the rest of your life, you cope. You try to help when you spot it in others. My adoptive father became a quiet crusader, using loving mrntirship of orphans, leadership in scouting, and a heart as big as the moon. Because of him, I am pretty good at giving and accepting love — at it was a struggle to get there. I hope my truth can help someone, either an abused, or an abuser, to look within for strength and courage to find a path of hesling.
This is as painful to read as it must have been to write, Rob, and I’m so glad you were able to confide in your stepfather. It’s amazing what an imaginary friend can do. I love the phrase ‘captain of escape’, like a superhero.
When I read how this pandemic was deepening the dread and suffering of do many innocents, even more unable to escape than they already were — it pissed me off, because I could relate so vividly and painfully.
Rob, sounds like the article has triggered you. Please be gentle with yourself and give yourself some extra pampering, my friend <3
Every now and then something churns up those years. They don’t hurt me any longer Lisz — but thank you for the love! 🙂
Words almost too much to read all the way through. Thank you for posting this very personal account, which has impacted me by your words so poignantly arranged.
You are welcome Carol. This is an after-the-fact recounting of the numerous fantasies I was abld to recall, which I employed as a child — arranged into a readable piece.
This is incredibly hard-hitting and poignant, Rob. It’s terrible the amount of child abuse that still prevails 🙁
And reading that it is surging in this pandemic Sanaa, because of the self-isolation, really pushed all my buttons.
That you were able to imagine all of this at the time says something for your resilience, Rob. I’m glad you finally found a true-life hero.
Children are pretty damned resilient. Me too ken, me too! What my adoptive father did that was so important, is he helped me come to grasp with the fact that it was not my fault – and he helped me compartmentalize the childhood terror.
I feel for your difficult childhood but your poem shows the importance of our imagination and the therapeutic effect of an imaginary friend. This poem takes us through many stages and details of your friendship. Great for lonely and isolated kids to read.
Surprisingly Georgina, almost all kids have that potential coping mechanism. What makes it so sad is that children do not understand why — snd therein lies the deep well of sorrow.
You are very brave, Rob, very brave.
As a child, I was just getting through it. The retelling is a catharsis.
Rob, your sharing of the childhood trauma is courageous, no matter how many years ago it happened. I’m convinced there is a self-preserving part of our brain that pulls us out of our bodies. You went with your friend on great adventures that saved you from imploding into that dark hole you mentioned. You are so blessed for your adoptive father who gave you a safe space to talk about it. To watch his example beyond, of helping other wayward souls, healed you more. I’m sure your adventure friend and your father are grateful they were able to help you. {{{{{{{HUGS}}}}}} <3 <3 <3
Thank you Lisa, I feel your hug. Like the zRolling Stones say, paraphrasing here — you may not get what you what, but if you try, you get what you need. Perhaps I am naive, but I want to believe we are all given what we need in difficult times. Recognizing it and embracing it, is the tough part.
Sorry to bombard your poem with comments and I appreciate you responding to each one. I read the article and see why you got triggered. It’s a dark time for all of us and the worst for the children. Come on Spring and the safe lifting of restrictions. Can’t wait to get out and about again!
I enjoy responding to comments Lisa… 🙂
I feel humbled to have read this. It was beautiful, but also – well – I don’t really have the words, I guess.
-David
The most important words for me David are “it’s in the past”. 🙂
I read this earlier … could not find a place to put my emotion … returned for another read and still can’t. No child, no child …. should have to endure abuse. Thank you for writing it, thank you for sharing your imaginary friend with us, thank you.
No, no child should Helen — but not unlike rapes that never get reported, significant amounts of child abuse never gets reported in time to make it effective in a timely manner, if at all — because a young child does not know how to advocate for themself. Medical professionals are getting more sensitive to the signs. But if it is extreme emotional abuse, like mine was, and not physical abuse — it is sadly, not as easy to detect. Emotional abuse can frequently have deeper and longer lasting negative impact. Some children retreat into silence. Others, as I did, act out radically at times, and not always violently. I constantly, almost manically, did things that would earn approval, recognition, or acceptance — often hoping to deflect any suspicion, fearful that someone might “find out” my shameful secret… as if it were a failure of some kind on my part. But young children frequently don’t tell, because it is usually someone they love or are dependent upon, snd they fear rejection or abandonment. In many cases they don’t know how to identify it, or express it as “wrong”. And frequently, if the child begins to realize it is wrong, they still say nothing out of guilt. It is a tangled ugly sorrowful web.
This is as beautiful as it is heartbreaking. I think children know a lot more about survival than we do as adults: they hone in on what is important, and keep the vital core of themselves protected, but of course this takes its toll on the adult as he or she grows. A truly moving poem, thank you for being brave enough to share.
You are welcome Ingrid!
This is visceral, emotional writing and I love it!
Thank you M Jay.
Rob, first of all, I’m so very sorry that you had to go through this. And you are brave to share it with all of us. I can’t imagine. I’m glad you had your imaginary hero to help you get through this. Thanks for sharing this moving and beautiful poem.
Thank you merril.
What a great tribute to our imaginations and our abilities to survive horrendous realities. I have worried about the child abuse that has increased now during the pandemic. So happy many children are starting to back to school now more in Missouri. They need the resources that schools provide along with the social interactions. A poignant read and reminder right now of those suffering.
Children are strong Tricia, but abuse, even if survived, still leaves scars — sometimes physical, which was not the case in my situation, but almost always emotional/mental, which was my challenge to deal with.
I have mixed feelings about rushing children back to school. “SUPER SPREADER” This is being pressured because parents want the kids out of the house. I think September would be a good target.
oh, Rob, what a difficult childhood you had with your manic grandmother! Your poem is so beautiful and heartfelt, and the ending is so heart-wrenching! I am glad you were able to emerge from all that like a phoenix from the trial by fire!
Thank you Dwight.