It’s maths – my last period of the day, and the room smells like sweat and musky cologne. I sit at a desk in the back row by the wall. The one that always has gum stuck underneath it. The teacher is talking about the reproductive system in females. I should be taking notes. I’m not. All I’ve taken away so far is that the uterus can expand to the size of a watermelon. Shuddering, I look back to the teacher, trying to focus on what he’s saying. His voice isn’t his, though. It’s too sweet, too sickly. Too close to the way he used to talk.

I feel my hand move my pen across the page. I write the word “ovum,” then scribble it out. Then rewrite it smaller. Then smaller again.

In front of me, someone types on their computer too loudly. The click-clack makes me squirm.

The teacher walks past my desk and something – maybe the scent of his stale coffee, or the weight of his shadow – makes my heart slam against my ribs, wild and desperate, like a bird trapped in a cage, wings battering against bars that won’t give.

“You okay?” whispers Harmony besides me. She’s in most of my classes. Chatty. Caring. She must have seen me staring.

I nod, even though I’m not.

“Concentrate on your work, please,” the teacher says, and for half a second I swear he’s giving me that look. His look. It’s hungry, animalistic. It’s the type of look that c r a w l s across your body, leaving behind a trace of something rotten. It’s the type of look that makes you feel like you’re a thing, and not a person.

He isn’t giving me that look though. I’ve never seen it on him. He’s not him. Right? They just wear the same aftershave.

Still, I flinch when he walks by again.

There’s a worksheet on my desk. I haven’t touched it.

I draw a tiny box on the paper and fill it in, completely black. Then another. Then another. Little containers. Little cages. Neat. Clean. Empty.

I wish I could shrink myself small enough to fit inside one.

And for a moment, I do. Except everything is wrong. The desk I’m sitting at is different; smaller, and chipped at the corners, carved with initials I don’t recognise. My feet don’t touch the floor, and the air feels thick; stale, like it hasn’t been breathed in for years. The classroom is empty but somehow feels crowded. Cramped. Like the walls are folding in, little by little. A light flickers over my head, and he’s there, looking down at me. Smiling like we share a secret. I’m eleven again.

I slowly get up to leave, but he kicks me in the stomach and pins me down. He starts yelling at me, but everything is muffled, like my ears are stuffed with cotton. I lie there and let him do whatever he wants, like I always do. I fix my eyes on the door, just in case. But no one comes. No one ever does. I watch my body flop around, weightless and lifeless, like a dying fish. I don’t scream; I don’t shout. My mind slips out of me, and suddenly, I’m a wild horse galloping far, far away, feeling the frisson of joy that freedom bestows. I’m a seabird with wings so long I can fly forever. I’m the moon, tucked away in the night sky, safe and hidden from him.

Time slows down or maybe stops. My thoughts scatter like a plumage of feathers exploding from a gunshot wound midair. I can’t feel the floor. Can’t feel my body. Then something shifts and I hear a rustle of papers. The classroom sharpens around me. My worksheet is still blank except for the tiny black boxes I drew. I gaze around. No one’s looking at me. Everything is quiet. Like nothing happened. Like it was all in my head. I lock the door that keeps the bad memories away and stare at the ceiling. There’s a crack
running through it. I count to ten. Then to twenty. I think about what it would feel like to float through it, up, up, and away.

Harmony nudges me again. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I nod and force myself to smile, pushing down the bile beginning to bubble in my throat. My mind starts screaming at me to leave, adrenaline pulsing through my veins. Without thinking about it, I’m on my feet. Walking. Running. The teacher calls out after me, but all I can see is the staircase ahead. I’m so close. I’m almost there.

I burst into the bathroom, shove open the door and run to the last cubicle, the cold tiles burning against my skin as I crumple to the floor. A strained gasp rakes its way out of me, my body lurching forward. All I can smell and taste is last night’s dinner.

Trembling, I lean against the door and draw my knees to my chest. One by one, the tears fall, each heavier than the last. My body accepts what my mind can no longer hold. Screams and sobs shake through me, sharp and suffocating. Grief slithers in, guilt close behind, both wrapping around my heart like vines, tightening with every breath. This pain isn’t just in my head anymore. It’s in my throat, my chest, my limbs, demanding its way out.

I let it.

After years of holding it in, I let it pour out of me – loud, aching, and endless.
When it all finally stops, I’m still curled up, snot dripping from my nose.

It doesn’t feel like this is ever going to go away. He’s still here. He’s always here. I want to move on – I think I do – but I don’t know how to do that when he’s still living inside me.

My body doesn’t feel like mine anymore. I don’t know if it ever did.

He took and took until there was nothing left. Sometimes I wonder what I did to deserve it. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the dirty one, the disgusting one. And sometimes, I even question if it was really that bad. But when I slip into that trap, all I have to do is watch it happen again and look into that girl’s eyes; blank, dilated, gone.

Once I’ve gathered myself, I grab my journal and a pen from my bag and start to write. But getting it out is hard. I’ve rewritten everything at least five times. Crossed out words and changed some. Regardless, I put my pen down and stare at the open book. The mess of ink, the rawness. The realness of it. Then I hear a knock.

Harmony sits down next to me. “Are you okay?”

I hesitate. Then I nod. “I think so. Can I show you something?”

I hand the journal to Harmony. I want to pull it back, to keep it safe. But maybe for once, it’s okay to let someone else hold it. To let someone else see me.

I need help, but I don’t know how to fix this. How to fix me. I know now though that I don’t want to feel like this anymore. He kept me locked up for so long, I forgot there was a world beyond the walls. And now that I’ve finally tasted freedom, the fear of being trapped again is consuming me entirely.

You.

You made me believe I was something special, and in return, I gave you everything. Every part of me. But you destroyed me like I was nothing; just another little girl you could ruin. Now I can’t breathe without smelling you in the air. So tell me, what do I do with that?

For years, I’ve felt like pieces of me have been missing. Like parts of myself were thrown across the world, waiting to be found. But now, I think I can finally tell my story, because the rivers of my searching, once lonely and lost, are beginning to flow back into the ocean of who I am. The pieces are coming home. I’m returning to myself.

I’m still my brokenness. I’m still a scared little girl wishing I could make him go away. But I’m also grateful. And I’m starting to feel something I thought I’d lost forever, hope.

I’m learning that hope doesn’t roar. Hope doesn’t shout. Hope is quiet, like a washing machine, gently humming on an early summer morning. Hope is a gentle pulse beneath all the noise. It’s always there, like a thread I can hold on to when everything else is slipping through my fingers.

Hope looks like small things now. Like getting out of bed, even when memories of him cling to me like ash after a fire. Like stripping back my fear just enough to say, “I need help.” Like feeling safe enough to be touched. It looks like laughter catching me off guard, or moments of stillness that don’t feel haunted.

It’s not that the pain has suddenly vanished. It’s that I’m learning how to live beside it. To breathe through it. To look for the light leaking in through the cracks. I’m not whole yet, but maybe I don’t have to be. Maybe I just have to keep going.

Because somewhere beneath the pain, there’s a flicker – small, trembling, but alive. A flicker of something soft and defiant. Something that says, I want more. More than just surviving. More than flinching at footsteps and counting ceiling cracks. I want nights that don’t fade into fear. I want to smile and feel it spread through me. I want to be seen without having to tremble.

And that has to be enough. For now, that has to be enough as I begin to forget him. Because he doesn’t get to determine my story anymore. I do.

So I’ll write. Even if my hands shake. Even if my voice cracks. I’ll write the truth, and in doing so, I’ll stitch myself back together, thread by trembling thread.

I’m still learning how to live in a body that remembers his touch. Still learning how to love it. How to trust it. But maybe, one day, I’ll stop seeing his handprints when I look in the mirror. Maybe I’ll see just me instead.

When Harmony looks up, she’s crying.

“I didn’t know,” she whispers, leaning her head against mine. “That was… brave.”

I exhale, a breath sighing its way out. Like something buried deep is finally letting go. My shoulders drop, not all the way, but enough. It feels like standing in the debris and knowing the fire’s out.

And maybe, just maybe, that will be enough.

A little something about recovery.

Reimagining my past is a heavy task,

a ghost I have carried,

a shadow in my smile.

It lingers in the quiet,

in the space between laughter,

a whisper of all I have lost.

Survival is not just breathing,

not just waking each day;

it is choosing to stay,

to fight for my own story; for my truth and my voice.

To rewrite the echoes

that tell me I am broken,

to hold myself close

when the weight of it all pulls me under.

I wear my success

like a shield,

but beneath it,

I am stitched together.

With sadness, strength, and survival.

It is the wisdom of ancestors, who remind me,

I was never meant to carry this shame.

It doesn’t belong to me.

I am more than the harm done to me.

I am more than the hands that tried to take my spirit.

The silence that tried to still my smile.

I am fire,

I am a story,

I am the bloodline of warriors, healers, and heart.

For every dark night,

I find a reason to rise,

My children’s laughter,

The colors of a sunrise,

the quiet knowing that I matter.

That I have always mattered.

So, when the past calls me back,

I try not to answer.

I stand in today,

in the fight for my future,

in the fire,

in the promise of tomorrow,

In love, I am still learning to give myself.

This is my beginning.

The Girl Who Fought the Dark
by Sarah Barnbrook

I waited for the stories to be true
for armour in the doorway,
for footsteps meant for saving,
for a voice that spoke of light.

But the dragons came in silence,
and I was small and trembling,
while the world stayed wide awake
and chose to look away.

I learned to fight with quiet hands,
a child with shaking bravery,
swinging at the shadows
no one else would ever face.

Hope thinned to a dying candle,
wax drowning out the flame.
I dreamed of silver horses,
but only ashes filled my lungs.

No rescue.
No armour.
No shield but my own breath.

So I battled through the darkness,
alone with ragged courage,
a war too large for little bones,
a night that stole my sleep.

And still, the world kept watching.

Now I walk through daylight
carrying the echo of that war,
a childhood lost to monsters
and a child-sized sword
abandoned in a field of shadows
where no one ever came

“I would like to see the voices of adult survivors of child sexual abuse and their experiences, not only as children but as adults, navigating the effects and impacts on their lives. I would like to see services for adult survivors of child sexual abuse, not just services for those who were subjected to institutional abuse. Where do the survivors of intrafamilial abuse go to get redress and acknowledgment?”

Dear little boy

I met you in 2009 while I was working in the Northern Territory. I looked into the eyes of too many small children who were victims of child sexual abuse.

I gradually spiralled into a never before visited abyss in my mind. In that abyss, memories I thought had no power almost destroyed me. I could see all your eyes inside mine and I could not escape.

As I descended into a dark nightmare, my daughter told me she too had been sexually abused. Her eyes joined ours.

You were taken away for a crime you were too young to commit. Did you? Are you OK? For me, your eyes represent all the eyes.

I still have the picture of the red car you drew for me. I never got to say goodbye. I hope you read this poem and know that I am sorry. Everyone knew. We all did nothing. I am sorry I did nothing. We were all victims. I hope you are a survivor too.

A red car

I remember your eyes.
You were seven, you were small.
I was big, I was old.

I looked into your eyes.
“Would you do a drawing for me”, I asked.

You looked into my eyes.
You gave me a picture.

I could see pain in your eyes.
I knew you were hurting.

When your eyes were gone.
I could still see them.

I will never forget you.
Your eyes looked like mine.

My body was mine, and mine alone. My body was sacred. My no was meant to be my power. You took that from me.

It makes me mad that you had the privilege of keeping this to yourself, where the only freedom I could be given was to tell others and lessen my own burden.

I spent my life ashamed for actions that were not my own. Ashamed of the ways I was tainted before I was even grown. I prayed to God hoping he could save me, heal it all, but in the end it was my own role. Trauma is isolating, suffocating, makes you feel as though your worth is imaginary, insubstantial.

My mother had the option to believe me once, read my diary said it was fictional, I was imaginative, “she’s great at telling stories”. My story froze, locked away, unable to be told – would resurface at a time i was not ready. 20 years old, addicted and inebriated it came to me, blaring vision of the events that traumatised me. I tried to acknowledge but I become my own critic the words I’d heard mimicked in me. I didn’t believe it, thought I was sick, needed help, it wouldn’t be the only time I thought i was creating my own issues. Took years of acceptance, hearing and seeing my own experience before I believed again.

Hurt myself so bad I was covered in scars from the age of 12. I was different, complicated, no one understood. What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you just be happy? I didn’t know how to explain the things that I’d been through, still thought I was the problem, sinful in my experiences, I was sure i would be punished for my victimhood.

“So I set free myself from all the guilt that I thought i made” Kendrick Lamar – Mother I sober.

“Disclosure met with disbelief compounds trauma. Children interpret adult reactions as reflections of themselves. Disbelief is often about the listener’s limitations, fear, or shame — not the child’s credibility. […] Healing can isolate survivors within families or communities invested in silence. Support structures must acknowledge relational fallout during recovery.”

“Early intervention is absolutely key. There are so many people who could, did, or should have recognised my vulnerabilities and abuse as a child and no one acted. One change could have changed the trajectory of my life.”

Never Too Old for Accountability: My Journey Through Disclosure and the Legal System

The National Centre for Action on Child Sexual Abuse has been doing incredible work in the space of disclosure. For many of us who have carried the weight of silence for decades, their work has opened doors that once seemed permanently locked. It has given victims and survivors permission to speak — to be heard, to be believed, and to begin the long, complicated journey toward justice.

But what happens after you disclose is something few people truly understand. Everyone’s experience is different, and those differences can completely change the path you take. For me, it has been a journey through the legal system — one that’s been both empowering and deeply confronting. It has also shown me that while there has been progress, there are still significant gaps in how our systems respond to victims and survivors.

The Civil Path: When Justice Depends on Wealth

For those who pursue a personal civil claim, the system can feel cold and transactional. Many lawyers charge hefty fees or will only take on a case if the alleged perpetrator has more than $1 million in assets, making the path to justice dependent on the abuser’s financial position.

Even when a lawyer agrees to take the case, victims and survivors often face emotional exhaustion alongside the financial risk of pursuing justice. The process becomes not only about proving what happened, but also about whether it’s “worth it” — as if a person’s trauma could ever be measured in dollars and cents.

A major barrier remains the exclusion of superannuation from the defendant’s asset pool. This means that even if the perpetrator has substantial funds in their superannuation, it cannot currently be accessed to compensate victims. There is strong advocacy underway to change this, and rightly so. For many victims and survivors, that exclusion feels like another layer of injustice — another way the system protects perpetrators rather than those who were harmed.

The Criminal Process: Layers of Complexity

When I decided to report my abuse to police, I didn’t know what to expect. One of the first things to understand — something no one tells you — is that your report may be handed over to detectives in the area where the abuse took place. This can be incredibly confronting, particularly if it means revisiting a place that holds traumatic memories.

Because of that, I contacted my local police station instead. I needed to feel safe. To my relief, I was met with compassion and understanding. The detective who took my call listened without judgment. Later, I met with him in person to give my statement.

That meeting was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. You’re asked to relive everything — every sound, every smell, every detail you’ve tried so hard to bury. You have to find the strength to speak your truth while keeping your composure. The detective, to his credit, recognised how difficult that was. He contacted his area command and received approval to retain carriage of my case, even though the offences occurred elsewhere. That act of understanding gave me a rare sense of safety and stability in an otherwise unpredictable process.

Then come your witnesses. They too give statements, but once they do, you can’t talk to them about the case. The rules are there to protect the investigation, but it also cuts off a vital source of support.

Later, I was asked if I’d be willing to participate in a recorded phone call or even wear a wire. The thought of having a device attached to my body while speaking to my perpetrator filled me with dread. The anxiety was overwhelming. It doesn’t matter how old you are — nothing can prepare you for that. And you don’t get to hear the recording until the trial. You just have to trust that it’s enough.

Waiting for the System to Move

Once the case was referred to the Director of Public Prosecutions (DPP), the waiting began. The DPP has up to six months to certify charges, but time moves differently when you’re waiting for justice. Solicitors change, communication breaks down, and updates can be inconsistent or unclear.

Witness support officers do their best, but they’re stretched thin — acting as intermediaries between victims and survivors and the legal team. You’re told the matter has been listed, then adjourned, then listed again. Months pass with little progress. The silence becomes its own kind of pain.

After more than a year, my case reached a major turning point: a charge carrying a life sentence was finally certified. My perpetrator is over 85 years old, and yes — I’ve wrestled with guilt about whether someone of that age should face prison. But then I remind myself: are you ever too old to be held accountable for what you’ve done?

The trauma of childhood abuse doesn’t fade with time. It lives inside you — shaping your relationships, your confidence, your sense of safety. If I have to live with it for life, then he can face accountability for life.

Becoming a Witness in My Own Story

What has struck me most is how, once charges are laid, you stop being a person in your own story. You become a witness — evidence in a process that no longer feels like yours. The DPP focuses on legal strategy, negotiations, and early pleas, but the victim or survivor is often left outside that circle.

You rarely get updates unless you ask. You don’t get to control how your story is presented. The defendant doesn’t even have to take the stand — the law allows it. For a process built around justice, it can leave victims and survivors feeling invisible.

Where We Need to Do Better
Allowing historical abuse charges to be laid is an important step forward, but recognition alone isn’t enough. Victims and survivors need comprehensive, trauma-informed support not just emotional counselling, but practical guidance through every stage of the legal process.

Because disclosure isn’t the end of the story. It’s the beginning of another — one that takes courage, patience, and an enormous amount of resilience. My journey is still ongoing, but if sharing it helps even one victim or survivor feel less alone or more prepared for what lies ahead, then it’s worth it.

Do Not Judge Me.

When I was young I had no – one ,
No – one to talk to ,
No – one to tell my dark secret to .
I just cried & suffered in silence ,
Why did I do such a disgusting thing ?
This is all MY fault ,
I am DIRTY ~ I am BAD !
I felt the pain ~ crushing .
Do not judge me ~ please just listen .

I could not tell anyone in the 1970’s ~ 1980’s .
I had my horse FRECKLES ,
FRECKLES was my saviour ~ my Champion ,
FRECKLES gave me hugs ~ FRECKLES gave me love .
I had my Kelpie Cattle dogs ,
We could run freely ,
I was on my dear father’s farm .
Harm was waiting for me at school ,
A school teacher ,
A fine person ?
He said the vile things ,
He did the EVIL things ,
Yes SIR !
Do not judge me ~ please just listen .

I left school ,
I drank ~ I took drugs ,
The Torment ~ the Heartbreak ~ the SHAME !
I’m NO GOOD !
Confused ~ Angry ~ Drunk ~ Oblivion .
I had motorbikes ~ 750 Four POWER ,
I could ride fast ,
I went Fast ~ Relief !
Do not judge me ~ please just listen .

Don’t comment if you do not listen !
Told a social worker I TRUSTED ,
NSW Police ,
DPP ~ Court ,
He pleaded GUILTY !
PRISON ,
I WON !
Do not judge me ~ please just listen .

I cry ~ I still get sick ,
I am proud I put the perpetrator in PRISON !
Now I tell my story ,
Now I don’t drink !
So don’t comment if you do not listen ,
Do not judge me ~ please just listen,
Listen & try to understand ,
Above ALL BELIEVE me !
Do not judge me ~ please just LISTEN !

“In the current context, I think it’s a long term strategy addressing toxic masculinity, misogyny, violence against women and children…On a more practical and achievable level, an easy explanation for survivors, and to educate the courts, police, family members, [and] the public to explain what is happening in a child’s or young person’s development and thinking, why sometimes they don’t scream, don’t say no, don’t tell anyone, why a child still acts fine with the abuser in non-offending contexts, why the offender doesn’t need force or violence, because it doesn’t make sense to a survivor when they grow up who feels guilty that they let it happen and a lesser person, or to all the other adults in the system who also judge. I’m sure this contributes to low rates of believing children and low rates of conviction and there would be a way to properly explain. I’m sure it’s complex and different for different people which is why it’s hard to explain, it’s more than stigma or worrying you won’t be believed, a much more mortifying feeling, and a feeling of responsibility, maybe to do with the breach of fundamental trust that you keep trying to get back to “normal” without “rocking the boat” as well as attachment, child development, neuroscience info in simple concepts, so that people understand and accept it.”

“I would like to see people held accountable. Redress gave me compensation through the means of finance, counselling and an apology from the department who employed the person who perpetrated abuse. However, this was a government cover up, and staff who were apart of the cover up are now in higher positions within the organisation. I was offered an apology by an executive who was the previous area manager under whom this abuse occurred and was covered up.”

“There was minimum emotional support for either myself or my kids, we saw the (thankful) removal of the perpetrator, but this left us struggling to keep a roof over our head, pay bills, afford food etc. This created an added emotional and overall mental burden on myself as a mother, which did impact the way I could engage my children (and they still say this impacted their relationship with me and how they see me, many years later).”

“make alternatives to reporting to police, as police are unsafe to most people”

‘When people turn a blind eye because it’s uncomfortable or they don’t know what to do, it sends a message that the abuse is OK.’

DIGNITY RESTORED

R ays of hope break through silence
E choes of voices deserving to be heard
S hadowed, gushing wounds seek gentle love
T rust tenderly a gentle hand
O pen hearts offer compassion
R espect given dissolves shame
I n truth strength will be found
N urturing resilience within
G o gently

D ignity arises within
I nnosence is honoured
G uided by love and care
N ever again silenced
I n our voices seeking freedom
T ogether we stand
Y earning for justice, wholeness and peace

© Sandra Collins

“I am a survivor of child sexual abuse. I grew up in plain sight, at school, in community, surrounded by adults, yet I was unseen in my suffering. My behaviour changed. I stopped talking. My sister answered for me. I withdrew so deeply that silence became my language. These were red flags that should have triggered concern, but no one intervene. The world was awake, and it chose not to see me.”

“There is no satisfactory understanding at any level of government or mental health services or clinicians or policy iterations that child sexual abuse has lifelong effects. The personality, trauma, behavioural, emotional, relationship and other impacts do not simply go away. They persist. They are often repressed for decades. We know that, but when they resurface, we don’t recognise them and we accuse people of fabricating and lying.”

“The focus on children and young people not just here but across all mental health and adjunct services/systems ignores the fact that aged 60 or 70, you might commit suicide because of what happened to you when you were 10 or 15, but nobody understands that, there are no services available and even the professionals who are supposed to help you are shockingly ignorant.”

“I would like to see safer outcomes for children who are experiencing family violence or sexual abuse in family court. We suffered horrific treatment and still live with very unsafe orders after my son disclosed sexual abuse.”

“Some very Brave Survivors have complex health issues. I think a specialised card that helps survivors when going to hospital, social workers, psychologists, the whole health spectrum, indeed their whole life journey is very important & helpful. It would help me & many other brave survivors.”

“As a result of the abuse and the prolonged legal processes, I have struggled to gain and maintain employment. At the same time, I face significant ongoing expenses for therapy, which is essential to managing prolonged PTSD. The costs associated with unemployment, psychologists, counsellors, healthcare, and medicine have been extraordinary. I have found there is no direct pathway in treating the effects of the abuse and there is very limited assistance or subsidisation in this space. The system places survivors in a particularly difficult position: we experience significant harm, must advocate for ourselves, endure the complexities of the criminal and civil legal systems, and are then left to cope with the long-term consequences alone.”

“The one change I want is for reform in the court system to allow for pre-recorded testimonies for victim survivors. Waiting for court was like putting my life on hold. Although healing is an ongoing journey, it was like I couldn’t even begin to take steps for it as I was just waiting to go to court – all of the lead up. All up it was around 2-3 years before we made it to court. I want future victim survivors who are pursuing this pathway to have more choice in the way they engage and this action would allow them to provide their evidence in a manner that likely would feel more safe than on the day in court, let alone the anxiety of the lead up.”

“I can still clearly recall how deeply offended and all too familiar it felt to be ignored when survivors of Voluntary Placements were left out of the Apology. I was filled with a deep sense of sadness as I listened to the Prime Minister apologise to the victims of institutional abuse. I realised that my horrific abuse and the trauma endured by countless Voluntary Placement Survivors was deemed so insignificant that it was completely ignored, and I had never felt more invisible or alone and invalidated.”

“Continuous ongoing support through all stages of life. Not just a few sessions or a couple of months, or even a year. Each stage of life, being a survivor of child sexual abuse, brings up new challenges for confront trauma. This is where help from psychologists/counsellors experienced in helping those with trauma from abuse is needed most. It’s a journey and professionals need to be prepared to be with a victim for prolonged periods of time.”

“It was a secret just between him and me. I was 7 and he was the father of a dear friend who lived in the neighbourhood. My mum was pregnant with her third child and he groomed my mum and me. I was meant to be safe at her house.”

I burn in rage.
Trapped, a metaphorical cage.

But this is his stage.
Therefore, I must not cave.

For I am his grandchild,
Carrying on wars wage.

Flooded deeply with confusion.
A new feeling, how strange.

He is hardly listening,
Beyond far from the same page.

I do not bother contesting this time, nor this day.

Instead, I mere vow to disengage.
It seems far easier, at such an early age.

But Father,
On Sunday, when they ask for our change…

Inform the Priest, I am in great great need of burning sage.

“I would like more information and access to trauma-informed psychological services such as EMDR available to women in both regional and urban areas and those services not have to be a choice between food or therapy. I have wasted years and thousands of dollars on therapy that was not trauma informed and not effective because talking about childhood trauma involved the body and feeling, and it is often impossible to talk about because the memories don’t always have language.”

“I was treated terribly both by the abuser’s lawyer and the judge in many ways during the trial. It has caused me just as much harm as the abuse I suffered originally. And with no support at all.”