Flying with Broken Wings
Wings are fragile.
Mine first got broken at age three when my ballet teacher said, ‘she’s too fat to be a fairy’
and I learnt I was unacceptable.
It was just a little break – maybe just a crack but it was enough to let the world know
I was readied to be its victim.
The world obligingly reinforced this lesson with a lethal weapon of wing destruction; sexual abuse – the raping of a four year old body by a fourteen year old.
To be held silent on the violation by vicious threats caused an inward cringe.
The cringe that brought a barrage of bullying that tore the twisted remains of gossamer wings to shreds one word, one action at a time.
At seventeen I fluttered into marriage thinking I was finding love and acceptance,
but at thirty seven I crawled away from his abuse,
my wings nothing more than shattered stubs.
Those who loved me tried to mend my wings and I did my bit one flutter at a time.
At fifty three I have learnt to fly with battle scarred wings
each held together with love, determination and tears.
I know they aren't pretty and they will never heal completely.
It will always be a battle to fly – to go in the direction I want to go, to achieve my goals,
but I don’t care for I can finally fly.
Each day I draw on the love around me, offer myself small kindnesses, set my flight path
find a tiny dash of self-acceptance to be the wind beneath my wings.
Sometimes I fly high, sometimes I fly low and at others I crash dismally.
And each time I crash I get up, dust myself off, give myself a mental hug, paste a smile on my face and launch again
because I will not let the cruelties of the past keep me grounded.
For that is to let them win.