By Dr Rosaleen O'Brien
Key Themes: autobiography, prose, poetry, abuse, Ireland
This collection intercedes factual reminisences in prose with later poems reflecting on the wider implications of Rosaleen's life.
There is also an array of topical poetry.
About the Author
I have been in receipt of trauma counselling since 1999 on a daily basis,at times speaking till the early hours of the morning.Support from my trauma Counsellor helps me to come to terms with accepting that what has happened to me cannot now be changed. I cannot ever forgive those who had a vicarious liability to look after me and failed. As a result of being locked away for some years all because we were poor has brought certain limitations to my day to day life. Writing is a form of therapy and allows me to be free to be the person that I want to be, and should have been my birthright. Through writing I can reach out to others who may have had such an unfortunate experience as myself . Daily flashbacks can be upsetting and I fill my life with things to do so as to block them out. Day to day life can be exhausting and coping mechanisms that I learnt in order to survive have not helped me in the outside world. God help all fellow survivors and perhaps one day Ireland will accept the terrible price we paid. Shame on all you right thinking residents in Ireland to allow the government and Catholic Church to ignore harm done to me and many others who are either dead or too ill to tell their story. Thanks to Chipmunkapublishing I have been able to confront my demons and a Big Thank you to Reatha my trauma counsellor without her I would not be here today writing about my stolen life.
1944 was the year that my mother she to me gave birth;
All during her natural life,
She counted me of little worth;
Why was I born? What was your plan dear God?
Knowing what I have been through,
I wished I had lain under the sod;
The thirties and forties were hard times I know,
So many poverty stricken people;
Tears rapidly did flow;
Mother always thought of herself and always ate the best,
Bacon and eggs at weekend Ė never thought about the rest;
Youngsters who were not walking like me,
Were put in a wooden box and covered with a rough blanket you see;
I could not end the misery, no I could not break free,
The council cottage where we lived I detested;
Bitten by rats Ė it was badly infested,
When I was bitten by the rat, I screamed out loud;
It has given me a complex; I stand out in a crowd,
I know that there are many out there who like me have been affected;
I know the marks would have been seen, yes, this abuse was detected,
As the rat attacked me and bit off my bread;
I lay there screaming on my make shift bed,
MORE POETRY FROM CHIPMUNKA
OTHER WORKS BY THIS AUTHOR
This product was added to our catalog on Wednesday 27 May, 2009.