The Hollow

Just an old man and his thoughts/feelings about having survived child abuse. I'm just one voice of many who are survivors.

Location: Owensboro, Kentucky, United States

I tend to be reclusive, hate crowds, can't stand loud noise, and talk too much once I know and trust you. I have a 'New Yorker' attitude and accent. Love Jewish and Italian food. I'm Hebrew when convenient and Buddhist when serious. I am INTP. See

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Remembering Momma

Sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, I have an overwhelming wish to go back in time; back to when I was seven. I want to be that little boy climbing onto Mamma’s lap and know what love is. I want to snuggle against her, have the warmth of her body against me, and feel her love surround me. No words. Only love. And every time I make this wish, the tears in my eyes blur the words on the paper. It's okay.

Every time I have this mood and need to revisit Momma, I cry and I know why. The only time I knew love as a child was with Momma. My real mother on the other hand, the one I was forced to live with when I was seven, gave me everything but love: severe physical, emotional, and sexual abuse by her. After six months, I was removed and placed in a child shelter.

It is not so much I learned how to endure severe pain. It is not so much that I coped with long period of being alone. It is not so much that the years of abuse continued. It is not so much that I lost my child’s innocence at seven. Or that by eight, I had already experienced sexual encounters with my mother, one girl, and several boys. It has something to do with that even at 72, I still long to be a seven year-old boy loved by Momma.

When I'm gone, remember only this. “Weep not for me. I am with Momma.”


Anonymous Wilma said...

omg, to be taken from your momma only to be abused by your real mother. This is so sad.

9:36 AM  

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