Category: Poetry

What Others Think

By John Baker

Can I let go of what others think of me?

What would that be like?

Has there ever been a time when

I did not bounce off of other’s opinions?

So little confidence in myself

They must have been right

Even If I didn’t believe them?

I am but I am not

Yes and no, I don’t know

Is what I think and feel

What I think and feel?

When I was a boy, my parents said I was sensitive

Later, others said I had cloth ears

Didn’t know anything, innocent

Head in the clouds, always somewhere else

Drawing pictures I dreamed but didn’t see

People will just walk all over you they all said:

Then someone did…

And, consequently, I blamed myself.

I am but I am not

Yes and no, I don’t know

Is what I think and feel

What I think and feel?

When I was adolescent I hated me;

My frontal lobe burned with injustices

Shrinking from the inevitable punches

In the classroom, the corridors, the playground

I didn’t fight back. They called me creep, weird,

Could they all see through me

To my pain, my shame?

I am but I am not

Yes and no, I don’t know

Is what I think and feel

What I think and feel?

Now I am here I have learned

What happened that I hid is not

My shame; sitting in my home

I can tell the younger me that

It wasn’t my fault but the abuser’s

Not my crime but the abuser’s

He saw not me, but a thing

To damage

I am myself; a Survivor

Hurt but strong

What folk think of me

Is up to them.

Unsung Heroes

Blog developed from previous Instagram posts about the impact of Child Sexual Abuse on pregnancy, birth and motherhood.

I read an article recently by Gretchen Schmelzer called The Courage of Parenting with a History of Trauma.

There was a part that really stood out to me:

“If you had been physically disabled by a past trauma and chose to run a marathon—people would call you brave. But we don’t do that with emotional wounds. They are invisible and the parents who rise to the occasion—and parent with love and purpose—who give what they never got—they are unsung heroes.”

This is so true. Navigating parenthood as a survivor of Child Sexual Abuse (CSA) can be an isolating experience and this starts at the very beginning. Nobody speaks about it. There is limited or no opportunity to bring conversations into antenatal appointments. There is no mention of trauma in parenting groups. We deal with the often highly triggering process of pregnancy and birth on our own, we might struggle with breastfeeding, to bond, or even have fears around gender – but we crack on because we have to.

The Last Taboo: Produced by Redzi Bernard and Phoebe McIndoe. A Falling Tree production for BBC Radio 4

Hurt People Hurt People goes round in our heads and we can’t risk our struggles being misunderstood as poor parenting. We want to be good parents. To break patterns, not be accused of causing further hurt. So we stay silent.

Here’s to all the CSA survivors doing their best to parent without the support they deserve. The ones doing their best to work it all out… to heal, to stop trauma passing to the next generation.

They are unsung heroes indeed.

Continue reading “Unsung Heroes”

No Toes and Crocodile Smiles

Sometimes she called me Pobble With No Toes 
from a poem 
I think 
by Edward Leah 
it made me giggle and wiggle my toes 
to check they were still there 

sometimes he called me Poppet 
with a wink and a crocodile smile 
he kept his teeth hidden 
hello Poppet 
I shot up to the sky 
my heart fell into my feet 

                                 Sophie Olson
Continue reading “No Toes and Crocodile Smiles”

No Space

This was one of two poems I performed at an event by Drop The Disorder: an evening of spoken word performances to challenge the culture of psychiatric diagnosis and the pathologising of emotional distress.

I wrote it recently, on a day where I felt overwhelmed and exhausted by the consequences of CSA. In the past, I would have equated this with poor mental health and considered making an appointment to see my psychiatrist. I don’t do this anymore because the psychiatric system was unable to support me with trauma. I never experienced relief with meds, there was never enough time, my trauma history was not acknowledged as the root cause and I didn’t receive the empathy or gentle care I needed to heal. On the contrary, treatment felt punitive and came with undertones of threat and a distinct loss of autonomy.

Continue reading “No Space”

Drop The Disorder Poetry Night

I consider myself a survivor of CSA and the psychiatric system, and was pleased to take part in an event by Drop The Disorder: an evening of spoken word performances to challenge the culture of psychiatric diagnosis and the pathologising of emotional distress.

One of the most significant moments of my journey was the time I reached out to a GP as I was leaving an appointment. She was kind, but as there was no screening for trauma, I was set on a path that delayed recovery for an entire decade. She didn’t intend to cause me further harm, she probably had little idea of what else to do with me. Trauma-informed pathways are long overdue and it is time for change. It is hard to have conversations like these without being accused of stigmatising mental illness but those who are harmed by the system must feel able to speak. When I do, I’m not denying the experiences of those who benefit from treatment, I’m validating my own experiences as someone who was failed by that system.

I regret hesitating at the door. This poem is called Door Handle Moment

Continue reading “Drop The Disorder Poetry Night”

All The Lost Things

Some pieces of writing have been sitting in draft form for a while. I am always unsure whether to post things this as they don’t paint an accurate picture of where I am currently in life. This poem was written nearly two years ago, at the very beginning of my activism journey. It was a time of intense self-reflection and processing of unexpected grief. Shame was still an unwelcome and persistent visitor as I starting to speak openly but I was receiving a few negative reactions. It felt like teetering on the edge of a cliff. I nearly gave up on my ideas and aspirations but I didn’t. I had a tremendous drive to move forward to the next stage in my life that I couldn’t ignore any longer. I was just on the cusp of ‘learning to fly’.

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Two Halves

I am dead:
Thou livest;
…draw thy breath in pain,
To tell my story

Hamlet Act V scene ii

(Content: CSA, suicide).


She simply died, infected by the touch of him. It began, this slow death, with a hand upon hers, iron fingers curled around small bones that could snap like twigs in an instant. A wrist too small, always too small for this. She was born small, stayed small, perfectly small for this. 

Continue reading “Two Halves”
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