Removed due to neglect – it’s more than a word…
It looked like a home, but it smelt of cat faeces and rotting rubbish. It was cluttered and messy.
It looked like no routine—unresponsive, distracted parents. No bedding. No bedtime.
No nursery. No book reading. No celebration of my movements or tiny achievements.
No floor time. Some toys, but not many. Lots of things to keep me contained.
My clothes were damp. My nappy was itchy, burning.
It wasn’t all bad—it came in cycles. I was loved, in their own way.
Removed due to abuse – it’s more than just a term
I had bruises on my legs, but I didn’t cry.
My parents’ noise was sometimes so loud my body felt like there was an earthquake.
The smashing of things. The chaos and the devastation that came after.
The emptiness of quiet. The eerie silence.
It wasn’t all bad—in the moments of lull, there was joy.
Removed due to chaotic substance misuse – it’s more than just a term…
A parent’s breath was the traffic light for what came next.
The noise levels were like a flag, showing what stage was coming.
High joy, with strange bursts of attention.
High anger and overwhelm—terror and hopelessness filling my little body.
High silence—hunger bouncing around my tummy, waiting for someone to notice.
It wasn’t all bad—in the natural cycle, there were moments of care.
Removed. Taken into care.
From an adult’s lens, I’m safe.
But all I see is strangers and a new world. It’s so scary.
Everything I touch is different from what I’ve ever touched.
Everything I smell is different from what I’ve ever smelt.
Everything I wear is different from what I’ve ever worn.
How can I feel safe when everything is so different?
How can I feel at home when this is nothing like my home?
How can I know it’s going to be okay when I don’t understand?
When I see my parents, there’s familiarity.
Moments like the old times—but only the good ones, not the bad.
The smells are the same. The smiles are different. The touch is strange.
But oddly, it feels more comfortable than safety does.
Love is enough—no more is required.
There’s attention all around. Smiles and warmth.
People cooing and making strange noises.
It’s nice. It feels good. I have toys.
The smells, the sounds, the world—it’s all very different.
Still unfamiliar and strange, but becoming comfortable.
It feels good.
There’s lots of niceness. Joy too.
Learning. Encouragement. So much newness.
The noises aren’t even in the same world as before.
Yet there’s a feeling in my chest.
Messages in my brain. Restless. Holding pain.
My hurt isn’t gone. It stays.
Like a shadow over my every move.
My alarm bells surge like lightning across my soul.
Like a shock—causing a scream, anger, or the need to be somewhere else.
I don’t understand it. People don’t understand it.
There’s so much to fear.
Sometimes I can rest and be in the moment.
Other times, I see a face change, a voice shift—
And I feel like I did before.
The fear sweeps over me, and then I change.
My voice, my body, me.
Nobody sees me.
They keep talking, sharing their views.
Is it this? Is it that?
Why can’t anyone see?
The pain from before hasn’t gone.
It’s still in me—tucked away in my fingers, my toes, my chest, my brain.
And hurt hurts.
Abuse doesn’t leave like a fairy tale.
Love isn’t always enough.
I have to be like this—it’s safe.
It’s better to be ready.
It’s better to fight back or run away
Than feel those things I once did.
See me.
See my pain.
See my hurt.
And focus all your ideas of safety on that moment.
Then safety can be built, felt, and held close.
Not perfect. Not a cure.
But better.
And I can be me.
I can be Kenny.
See me.