WARNING – This poem talks about childhood sexual abuse and incest. It is a true story of my life. It is to bring awareness to this type of abuse and to show that there is healing in time. It is my prayer that if you’ve experienced this kind of abuse that you will find love, healing, and peace.

My Father Is Dead

“My father is dead” is the lie that I told.
An end all response as the question arose.
“Tell me about your family and the life that you left.
About your mother, your brothers, and what made you come west?”

She only meant to be friendly, as I saw her each day.
She was a teacher, I, her helper, in the classroom that day.
“What about your father? Does he live there too?”
I didn’t know what to say, how to act, what to do.

Never before did I falter or lie when asked.
Usually, vague answers had sufficed in the past.
Maybe she already knew, I couldn’t be sure.
But the message came clear when I uttered those words.

“My father is dead.” I abruptly quipped.
First a pause, then a soft reply, “I’m sorry.” She said.
It’s not that I wanted to lie, that wasn’t the case.
But the evil I left behind couldn’t come to this place.

What would she think of me if she only knew?
Would she judge me, reject me, damage me too?
Could she see the fear and pain in my eyes?
Did she believe me, or did she see through my lie?

My father was abusive, he had shattered my trust.
His love for his daughter, he traded for lust.
I can’t begin to fathom why he did what he did.
All I know is that it was too much to handle for a kid.

For years I was silent, no other person knew.
Trapped in a world in my head, as hatred in my heart slowly grew.
It consumed me and filled me; I wanted him dead.
Then the guilt would overflow, and the same fate I plead.

I hated myself with a passion so great.
I felt that dying would be the most peaceful fate.
But I was afraid of death and couldn’t do that to my friends,
So, I held onto hope that things would improve in the end.

In retrospect now, I look back on that day,
And I realize, not a lie, but the truth I did say.
He lost his daughter, when my love he could no longer hold.
The man I once called father, had died long ago.

Now, just a shell of a man, his heart has gone dry.
Indeed, on that day, my father did die.
But me, I go on, my heart beats, and I breathe.
At first healing was painful, but now each day I seize.

The hatred and pain, I hold onto no longer.
What could have destroyed me had I let it, only made me grow stronger.
It’s taken some time to get to this place.
More healing will come as I continue my pace.

But step by step, each day grows brighter,
As I reclaim myself and walk ever higher.
My story continues, and while my father is dead,
I’m no longer ashamed by the path that he led.

My life is fuller, and happier too,
Because of my past, and the pain that I knew.
God has transformed it in a way I don’t understand.
But I know that I’m healing in the palm of His hand.

©2019 Stephanie Blomquist