When I grow up, I want to be a famous writer. I want to write about the abuse that some children have to survive. I want the world to feel what these children feel. I want their stomachs to knot up, and I want the world to know their pain.
When I grew up living with abuse, it was taboo to stand up and say, “please someone make this end.” Being beaten down, by those who should have loved me the most—the bloody nose, the black eye, the bruises head to toe. Oh how the teachers most have known. The agony and despair, how I wanted to disappear—the welts that bled for weeks on end, the tears that choked back so I wouldn’t be smacked again.
The way I had to try for an “A” or my life would just waste away. The suicide attempts, the crimes, just so someone would come and take me away. I had to make haste, leave, and run from hells fiery gate. The searching for a place to hide, one they might not find me in this time. They taught me to hate, to never trust, and not to make a fuss—praying for the lord to knock on the door. Knowing I was too late, this is my fate, he wouldn’t come he hadn’t before. Could I have been to dirty and he didn’t want to look at me anymore?
As neighbors closed their windows, so my howls would not get in, the rags my brother used to clean me as he whispered “be silent or you will get it again”—these memories so unclean, tattered, and torn. They are so worn, for I can not make them dissipate. They creep into play each and every day, they stand in my way. I reach out to find a cruel world, telling children to sit in their silent pain. They are told not to complain.
Oh, I want you to know their pain. They cry out at night, and you sit while you hear the fight. You do nothing to end their plight. How you miss out on helping in the fight. How a tiny hand that thrusts into yours, could cease to exist anymore. How one misplaced blow could close their door …
I am a published author and poet my pen name is Felicia Roberts. My book is titled When She Cried.
These are not blurbs from the book, these are feelings, of a child who grew up abused. Being told she was worthless and dreams beaten from her. Dreading having to come home from school, she wasn’t a fool, she knew her fate had a belt tied to it; she just wanted to protect her little face. This is my story. The book is fiction. My story, you read part of today.
People we can go to church and pray for the children of this world. God doesn’t answer them—he doesn’t reach down and scoop up the child. You need to stand up and if your scared, then I implore you to go to a pay phone make an anonymous phone call to the police. Children need for us all to watch over them. It’s too late for those who lie in graves, it’s too late for those of us who live our days in silent pain.
The flash backs that never end—the tormented dreams that never cease. Getting stuck in a memory and not being able to shake it away, as they relive the terrible blows, the terrible words, this is my curse.
The nights of hunger for I must have made a blunder. You never know the child you help, could be the next writer. Do you want that on your conscience? Do you want to know you did nothing as a child was set down at hell’s fiery gates. To be beat upon because Daddy messed around, or Mommy was acting too much like a tramp while out on the town.
This wasn’t written to make you feel guilty, but if it did, then there must be a phone call you have to make. Stand up, I implore you! Don’t let our children be beaten any more, stand up! Be their saviors, be the one the can run too. Be the one that says no more, we as a people will not let this go on. Just say No More.
If you were abused get help, don’t lose your temper with a child, walk away. Get help! Don’t let the memories plague you. You’re a good person; it’s ok to let out the pain. They can’t hurt you anymore. Get help; don’t carry this over to your children. Abuse is a never-ending cycle, teach your children to break the chain. I broke it! My daughter will not know these things, she will not experience them. Help a child stand up.