Essays from The Shadows
Volume Two
You will not be surprised to learn that my internal monologue is relentless and quite sharp and tetchy. I come up with cutting exit lines, edit, rewind, try again. I answer people in my head, then flounder around for a better, more polite answer while all the time trying to justify my use of the first choice, and obviously because it is funnier.
Survivors have to listen to a lot of dribble about abuse. A lot of theories, a lot of banal and empty gestures and a lot of clumsy attempts to comfort. Yes, we know they don’t mean any harm, they’re well-intentioned and very much out of their depth. I am past caring about my reputation, so I am happy to take one for the team.
I am not very brave. I might have been brave when I was eight and stood up knowing full well my father would punch me down again, but even I might consider that foolish. Speaking about abuse, telling my story is about necessity and the realisation that I should have done it sooner, not bravery.
I don’t honestly expect to be lynched by the very people I have chosen to disclose to. Even writing about it is not brave. It is after the event. It is with hindsight. Brave is rescuing a drowning child from a fast-flowing river. Brave is going into a burning building, standing up to bullies or wearing that shirt in daylight and with those shoes!
I am always being told I am brave and that they don’t know how I cope. Nope, nor do I. Who told you I do? I get by. I cling on. I, we, they are very good at the appearance of coping well. We have to be. That’s what keeping the secret is all about. When we are struggling to avoid collapsing in on ourselves, we learn how to hide behind the facade, the mask, the performance. The alternative is to be found out.
Whatever form our abuse takes, it relies on secrecy to exist, to continue. Silence provides the space between fear and reality that allows it to continue. We don’t choose the abuse any more than we choose the nature of our coping.
We are also asked the same questions. Well-meaning people ask them directly, and they hang in the air like passive-aggressive balloons. Shall we deal with some of them? Just address them so we know what we are dealing with? Maybe we can come up with some civilised responses. Helpful versions of what first springs into our minds.
Why didn’t you tell anyone?
Well, I looked around and saw well-meaning idiots like you and I felt you weren’t really qualified to help in any way. See? Inappropriate! Accurate but inappropriate. I didn’t tell anyone because I was told I would get into trouble and being a child, I believed the adult who was telling me that and by the time I got older, well, by then I so firmly believed my abuser that I was helping him to hide the fact he was abusing me. Quite the mess, isn’t it?
Why didn’t you just say no or tell them to stop?
I am such a fool! Why didn’t I think of that at the time?! Because I was a child and I had no idea what they were doing. We could go into details, but I’d rather not. If you have no idea what an adult is about to do to you, it is quite difficult to stop it.
Why didn’t you go to the police and report them?
Well. All of the above. And the police don’t always believe children when they report abuse, especially if the abuser is in any way respectable and there is the added problem that abusers tend to teach their victims they will not be believed. I refer you to my earlier answer about children being predisposed to believing what adults tell them.
It takes courage to speak. We may have to reason with ourselves. Tell ourselves over and over that it will be okay. That we will be believed. That it is the right thing to do.
In my experience, it doesn’t get any easier. If I am faced with someone who has no idea of my history and it becomes necessary to say something, the same dry mouth, abject fear and horror of what I am about to do washes over me. I have to steel myself to do it.
Mostly I have only ever had good responses from people. Changes nothing. It is not you, it is never you, it is the fear. Fear of exposure, irrational fear that the abuser will find out you said something. A myriad of awfulness that has no comparative experience I can point you towards to aid your understanding. Some things you have to take on trust. It is how it is. Always.
Most survivors have dabbled in some of the following: drink, drugs, sex, suicide attempts, hiding from the world, destroying relationships, losing jobs, returning to their abuser, staying in abusive or wrong relationships because it is all they know or expect. Seeking thrills to try and dull the pain. Driving fast, climbing mountains, becoming comedians, having hit records, being a very competent and high-earning stockbroker in the city.
That’s how they cope. Or don’t.
Most survivors who were abused as children had their education interrupted, stalled or halted altogether. This results in a secondary effect that contributes a layer of problems for the rest of their lives. Unfulfilled potential at best, mundane, low-paid employment or just no employment at all.
The question I really don’t like very much: How are you feeling? How would I know?! I have never had any control over that and however I happen to be feeling, trust me, like the British weather, another one will be along in a minute.
Our feelings are hijacked by intrusive thoughts, mood swings, overwhelming sadness, a kind of survivor grief that is a heady mix of what might have been, what ifs and if only I hadn’t.
I am strong. I was made strong by a relentless and long campaign of ownership of my body and soul. I was kept strong to enable me to exist in a world that did not see my hurt. I will need to be strong to get to the end and I will … get to the end.