Anger And Gratitude

Anger by Claudia H. Blanton

the anger behind
that sweet smile you always show
is reserved for me

Domestic abuse – a reality many women – and men – experience in their relationship. The fear of those who supposed to be caring for us, making our homes a nightmare, instead of a safe haven is real, and never the fault of the abused.

Why am I choosing to write about domestic violence in a blog post that usually features “Celebrate The Small Things” and “Thankful Thursday”? Because I am thankful to be one of those women who do not have to live in fear, but I am also aware that this puts me in the situation to choose to ignore the plight of others, or do something about it.

While donating to organisations that assist domestic violence victims might not seem a lot, it is something many of us who live a comfortable and safe life can do. Just because we do not experience this type of environment, does not mean we can let ourselves be numb to those who suffer.

But, I am going to add this for my most eager readers, you should NEVER get directly involved. Domestic violence perpetrators are violent and dangerous, making anyone in their way a target just as much as the actual target they desire. If you suspect anyone you know being abused, or know that they are in need of help, look for local resources they can contact, or call them yourself, and ask them what actions they suggest for the abused to take. Those professionals are trained to assist victims and keep them safe, something that you and I are not.

If you are looking for organisations that help battered spouses, check out the following links:

Women helping battered women
 National Coalition Against Domestic Violence
 Leaving Abuse

This blog post is a part of the following blog hops:

Thankful Thursdays

Celebrate The Small Things

Thankful Thursday (Pepi Smart Dog)

Reasons to be Cheerful

Reflect

 

The above art piece “Anger” is available on RedBubble, and I am donating 20 % of profits of this digital art piece to the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence. Thank you for your support.

 

Prisoner – A Flash Fiction

“Simply Cute” Pattern Design by Avalon Media

Many aspects of him frightened me, but none chilled me as much to the bone as his need for perfection.
Patterns laid perfectly in unison with each other, never one aspect out of place, and the glance in my direction, when something was not up to his standards alone, made me shiver in fear. In a constant state of fright, I lived my life prisoner to his obsession, an obsession I was supposed to be grateful for. If I was not, the bruises on my face would bear witness of the price I would have to pay.

Copyright Claudia H. Blanton 2015

If you liked this story, why not check out my design store on RedBubble

Off Limits – A Haiku

bare skin in the sun

not an invitation to

just take what you want

Copyright Claudia H. Blanton 2015

Holding Onto Hope – A Poem

the sound of a fight
echoes through the dreary house
no longer refuge

from where can I steal
a little sense of peace, lost
somewhere in the dark

Copyright Claudia Blanton 2015

Forgive Me – A Poem

I wish I could give
you the trust you deserve, but
echoes of the past

have a hold on my
heart, chains not yet broken by
the warmth of your love

Copyright Claudia H. Blanton 2015

Bedtime – A Five Sentence Flash Fiction

Bedtime routines are supposed  promote comfort, peace and set a mood for a relaxing night sleep. At least that is what they teach in school, and I am inclined to believe my teachers. But now, as I am laying in my bed – the thick covers barely manage to hide my shivering – I hear them again, fighting, as they have every night for as long as I can remember. And I know, that in morning, my Mother’s bruised face will bear witness to my father’s rage.

Copyright Claudia H. Blanton 2015

This post was inspired by this weeks Five Sentence Flash Fiction Prompt: “Bedtime”.

Making Peace With Myself – A Poem

Vulnerable by Marlies Odenhal

I used to hate you
that part of me, weak, exposed
like an open nerve

raw, vulnerable, in pain
disgusted by the torture
linked to twisted acts

of a sad, sick mind
but in the healing love of
another, I found

 peace

Survivor – A Haiku

Memory of you
makes me squirm with dreadful thoughts
but you did not win

Copyright Claudia H. Blanton 2015

This post was inspired by the Daily Prompt “Embrace The Ick“.

 

Just A Girl – A Flash Fiction

This was the worst, and scariest day of her short life, the day where everything would change, and nothing would ever be the same.
A slave to a custom, that never dared to ask what she wanted, her choices not relevant, her young age not an obstacle.
She was, after all, just a girl, her father’s property, for him to give away, so she could become the property of another.
A person, whom she had never met, and who would from now on, be the one deciding for her, where she could go, whom she could talk to, and to bare his children.
Pushing back the tears, she tried to smile through the delicate veil her Aunt put upon her, awaiting her new fate, as a wife.

Copyright Claudia H. Blanton 2014

This post was inspired by this weeks Flash Fiction Prompt: “Marriage” 

 

 

 

Vision Of Ourselves – A Language of Love

Daily Prompt asked us today: As a kid, you must have imagined what it was like to be an adult. Now that you’re a grownup (or becoming one), how far off was your idea of adult life?

As a victim of child abuse (mentally, physically and sexually), I don’t remember having a vision of a potential adult life. I was too busy being  scared, too busy hovering in fear of what I would do wrong next time. Was my desk in perfect order? My elbows of the table when I was eating?Did I shuffle my feet when I walked, or cut the onions the perfect size?  Was he drunk, and if he was, how drunk was he – hopefully enough to be passed out, because that meant peace, at least for a little while.

I found my salvation and solitude in books, and he even managed to take that away, allowing me to have one book per month. So I rewrote them, I turned them into scripts, I imagined them differently. They where my only place for comfort.

This and the fact that few years later (at mere 17)  I met a young man, stationed in my home town, who taught me for the first time how to express kindness, gentleness and love, in a language which, until then I only had spoken during school lessons: English. He taught me, in English how to feel, how to get mad, how to express myself, how to be anything but that scared little girl.

Then he had to leave, his time of being stationed in Germany over. It was time for him to go back home. And I was lost.

A week later he called me, proposed, and told me to jump on a plane. I did.

The last words my Father spoke to me that morning, as I stood in the hallway, a suitcase in my hand were harsh, but nothing new, calling me stupid and  a whore.

24 years later, two kids, and after many years of marriage, some turbulent, others quiet, I found my place. With him, still, always with him. A man who taught me so much, supporting me, believing in me, waiting for me to heal some, if not all of the scars I am burdened with. He taught me how to feel, how to be pissed off, how to fight, how to love, how to laugh, and all that in a language I learned to love. So when people ask me why I chose to become a writer, but not in my mother tongue, it is because of that.

English is my language of love.

 

 

Fast forward 24 years later.