I’m SICK of being brave
Of being told “You’re coping really well”
And of the memories I hadn’t faced until now
I’m SICK of the word “abuse”
In every paper
On every radio
On the telly
Even at mass and in every bar-stool conversation
I’m SICK of pretending to be strong
And of people getting their strength from “mine”
Sapping my weakness still further
I’m SICK of my loss of innocence as a child
And my loss of innocence as a man
(I worry about touching my daughter in case I’m just like him)
I’m SICK of feeling guilty
About what I did
Before facing up to how my abuse affected me
About what I’ve done since
Using my abuse as an excuse
About what I let him do to me
And about wanting to dance on the bastards’ grave
But, to go back to the way I was
With all the comfort
Of self-deceit
Of secret hurting
and of the delusions
That I was well, okay and well-adjusted?
I tried it once, it didn’t work
Before I grew up,
And faced my past square-on
And my future with hope
For the first time ever
Yeah, if I did go back
To the way I was before
Then I guess I really would be sick