Open Journal #11
I am fascinated by how quickly you can connect with people here. I keep coming back to it and picking at it, trying to understand it. I mean sure we all have one thing in common, but it can’t just be that. Maybe it’s a false feeling, those of you who pop into chat rooms, answer posts and generally engage are going to be the ones who would do that in real life I guess. Extroverts and outgoing and the crazy people.
The connection rate is higher though, it must be, because otherwise we wouldn’t notice and comment on it. From my side it is obvious from the start that I am heady with the excitement of being with so many male survivors, giddy almost. It is a new experience to be amongst so many and it feels like a wealth of endless possibilities.
My head fills with questions and you are egged on to ask them and ask some more. The brilliant thing is they are answered, there is no shortage of opinions, suggestions and that wonderful thing called experience.
The first thing I discover, and let me say it knocks me for six, is how joyful it is when somebody says ‘yeah me too’. Just that. Just the idea that somebody else feels the same as you, not ‘I’ve heard that can be bad’, actually feels it. In the same way. Oh so that’s what validation feels like. Well I will take any amount of that you are dishing out.
You listen in on conversations, everyone throwing things into the middle of the room, consensus on what is common and normal, realisation that you know that, feel that, understand that. Maybe, here you are normal, maybe here you could fit in. Maybe.
A random group of men lose themselves in absurdity and silliness and the laughter echoes around the room and for a flicker of a moment things don’t seem quite as bad as they were this morning. The darkest conversations that are shocking in their truth and reveal and display the honesty of deep wounds that make you realise if he can say that and be heard, then maybe you could say stuff too. Maybe
You scuttle into private chats to giggle at private jokes or to speak together of some pain that you just need to get out of your head. The very act of someone willing to throw their pain and emotions at your feet and hear yours in return seems to fast track trust and affection and it feels like you are talking to that brother who always got you, and oh how you missed him, and oh where have you been all my life.
I want to believe that the chat room has the biggest flumpiest sofas, rugs with worn edges and a fire all embers and ready to toast crumpets on a toasting fork. I want to think the coffee pot is always fresh on and that the room smells of love and kindness.
I mean sure it’s pixels and a plain white screen but a boy can dream, and if he can dream it can be anything he fucking needs it to be.
I have been here 14 days now. Two weeks of my life spent talking to virtual strangers in a virtual world and I am the better for it. I am more me because of it. I am without a shadow of a doubt safer because of it. I have never felt so welcomed, I have never experienced so much kindness and concern.
There are people who have just fallen into step beside me and walked with me, followed me out of rooms to ensure I am ok, followed me back into rooms to make sure I stay ok. Helped me and guided me, corrected me when I clearly got it wrong and reprimanded, well it has to be said, with love, which was a new experience.
Some of them I have left and gone and read their stories and cried at what they have endured. I have no idea how they find time and space for such compassion and kindness that they show me.
There are people here who have no idea what they do for the likes of me. I can walk to my desk at 3am with a blanket around me because the air is chilly and I have been woken by a nightmare and I daren’t risk going back to sleep in case I just find myself back there. I logon and slip into the room and there is mayhem, jokes and chaos, people coming and going, links and videos being splattered over the screen, little digs and calling out and quiet little corners of chatting and jokes always jokes.
Well i’m not alone anymore and I’m not sure … but I don’t think we are in Kansas anymore.
. . .
Open Journal #12
I take a call from my little sister. There are three, and she’s the one I giggle and shop with. We grab some tea and settle down for chat and news and silliness. Eventually, she asks how I am and what I’ve been doing. In the next five seconds my mind rejects the polite noises I was about to make.
See the thing is, we don’t talk about things. It’s all just… there.
I don’t because, well you know, survivor — so there’s the whole secret-keeping thing, and besides, if I ever had, out loud, in front of my father, I don’t think I’d be here to tell the tale. Oh, I wanted to. I lacked courage, wherewithal, words really.
There was a siblings’ conversation once as adults about messy family secrets, an exchange of information, but even then it was the thing that was never said, not out loud. Obliquely and without prejudice it exists in our shared history. We just don’t know what to do with it.
Little sister was seven when I walked away, so she is blameless, and I have never found a reason to cast shadows where they are not needed. It has been referenced and noted — we don’t pretend it never happened — but we didn’t understand it then and we don’t understand it now.
There is a silent, still understanding that none of their children will ever experience the same. None of us would ever let it happen, and he is never left alone with a single one of them. We all know how quickly anger can explode. We’ve all witnessed the uncontrolled rage, and we all hold sacred the vow that it stops with us. I know I took that vow, and I don’t need to ask — I know they did as well.
I hesitate in the silence and don’t know which way to go. Two weeks ago I stepped into an arena of honesty. I had no intention to compromise or fudge this or sidestep, and I know this human loves me with all her heart, so I take a breath and I tell her.
I tell her that my time is spent thousands of miles away crying, laughing, talking, growing, understanding, being me.
For the first time, I actually voice the thought: “our father beat me a lot and locked me in rooms” — so I have just been understanding that beating me was abuse as well — and she says, “yeah and I know your childhood was different from mine and locking in rooms as well… locking in rooms is abuse, not just the beating.”
Little sister tells me how those two boys of hers — who I adore and have watched grow into the most amazing adults — never once has it even been an idea, let alone an action. Nobody does that. It’s imprisonment. It’s wrong. Yeah, but those two weren’t bad like me. “It’s wrong and it’s abuse,” she repeats.
I am starting to think I am a complete moron. Of course it is.
In my head, it has always been like other people say “naughty stair now” or “you are so grounded mister” or “that’s no pocket money for a week.” Just a punishment. Just a way of dealing with the unruly. A way of re-establishing authority.
We tell each other how we were both scared of him. We cry a little and we speak words of comfort and love. There is nothing to be done. He is long dead. Everyone is grown up and we all survived.
Here I am, 3am, staring at a pile of stuff that wasn’t there two weeks ago. It’s all in an overflowing box labelled “abuse I have known.” It used to have just the one file full of many incidents, but now there are new files. I’m not sure what order they go in. Order of appearance seems the most logical, and for now, I guess it’s as good as any.
Does that mean they have to be seen in sequence, handled one after the other, or is it ok to just pick things out and watch random clips? Who decides these things?
In the still of the night, I start to ponder how I ever got this far. Why did I never succumb to the lure of suicide? How come I didn’t end up a rent-boy? Why have I never tried to wipe away footage by swallowing gallons of vodka? Why didn’t I grab drugs and shove them into my veins until my mind exploded into darkness and silence? What is wrong with me? Why did I just keep on trying to make sense of it? I still am.
I used to dismiss the violence. And what is the title on the new file? The abusive imprisonment. It was just a fact of life. Well, this life. So normal it was hardly worthy of note. Now I am not so sure. I admit to a sense of shock. Now it’s been added to the pile of things that need my attention. The growing pile of abuse.
As a child, I was beaten and locked in rooms.
As a teen, I was sexually abused.
It was all abuse. I think I know that now.
Little sister is the first family member who has heard me.
That’s enough for one day ~ bring on the night.
. . .
Open Journal #13
Disassociation is something I was aware of before I rocked up here. I knew the term, I knew what survivors meant when they referenced it, and I knew that I did it. Had it. Suffered from it. Caught it. What is the right term? Live with it. I live with disassociation and it with me.
This is fresh, ink-not-dry-on-the-page stuff. I am just starting on this winding road, who knows where this will end up. A thought process followed over the last few days has led me to some understanding of how disassociation resides in me. It has also gathered a whole slew of new questions, so there’s that.
It has been with me from the age of five. Various factors lead me to that conclusion, could possibly have been around even younger, but I am confident I can place it there. I didn’t call it that, not sure I called it anything. If I had tried to identify it I would probably have called it fear. Then again, it was a part of fear, one of the aspects of fear. A jagged edge of fear, it is hard to tell. I know I can identify it really clearly around seven or eight — there is violence and I know that I am sometimes not there in the moment. I feel distant from the anger and the shouting at me. I am accused of not listening but I am not being. I am not being here and I am not being me.
It doesn’t really develop; it is just a tool to use in moments of stress. And the only moments of stress are caused by my father’s anger and temper and explosive violence. It is always on stand-by and only really switches off when I am in my bed and alone. If you are alone there is nobody to hurt you, so you can relax.
Then there was the sexual abuse, and there it was, shimmering and safe and easy to digest. I knew this feeling. I still didn’t have a name for it but I started thinking of it as “the feeling.” The problem was that it seemed to slide in alongside desire and lust. I started to think of it as part of the complex mix of feelings and chemicals that was part of being turned on.
It was a comfort that it was there. It was safety and calm and it was just let it happen, just go with the flow. It allowed me to not be there and meant that I allowed things to happen. No resistance because I wasn’t there. No fear because I wasn’t feeling. Sex made powerful feelings and they could be felt and experienced but everything else was neutral and dark. Orgasm would switch it off, and post-cum bliss I would be back in the room.
As I start to learn about this weird part of me, it is by now a strong part of me, almost like another emotion. I have to concede that I am left with more questions than answers. I just can’t fathom that not once have I ever resisted it, if anything I welcomed it, allowed it to take over when it needed to. I have never made a single attempt to stop it or slow it down or not do it. Once it kicks into gear I always just let it flow and go where it takes me.
Now I am asking if it can be controlled, or stopped, or changed, adjusted, or am I just subjected to its whims and have no choice.
Post the season of abuse I entered the period of an endless stream of boys at my school involving me in sex. For that period it became a little refined and highly tuned. Boys could flirt and seduce and look and suggest — nothing. The moment they touched me my cock would instantly erect and the feeling would swamp me and I would have no more control. I would allow anything, have no thought of escape, no ability to intervene or make a better choice. It just was.
Looking back now, in the light of what I am learning, I start to ask myself: was it keeping me safe, or was it making it easier for me to be abused? I will get back to you when someone spells it out for me. I agonise over trying to see clues, and I search the memory banks for patterns of behaviour and understanding of what makes the feeling work.
It is integrated into that heady cocktail of sexual feelings that in hindsight it is difficult to work out if it is good or bad. If I disassociate am I in some way contributing? If it makes me submissive and pliable does it mean I am allowing for abuse, encouraging it even.
I trust it. I know how it makes me feel and I prefer that to anything else that might be on offer. It is still here. It is always here. It still kicks in. If someone touches me it is on alert, if a hand touches my bare skin it kicks in fast and starts to swamp me, or if anyone makes a clear sexual suggestion. I still don’t have an off switch. It recedes if I realise quickly that it was a false alarm.
Smoking was useful. If something was said or done that triggered it then I could slip outside and light a cigarette. People were used to me doing that so it was a useful and actual smokescreen. If I was spotted through a window pacing the garden and blowing plumes of angry smoke it was a familiar pose and raised no questions. Nobody asked if I was ok. Nobody needed an explanation. I could take a beat and allow it time to dissipate and clear. Vaporise with the smoke and leave me alone with thoughts, recede into the background and move on.
As an adult it stuck around and came into play whenever it was needed. Parties, weddings, crowds are fraught with danger. Drunken people who have lost their awareness of boundaries, theirs or yours. Prowling predatory people.
It has become over-sensitive and is a little bit trigger-happy sometimes. I explain that away — that the job is unusual and requires me to interact with more strangers and unexpected curve balls than most.
I have no idea where I am going with this. If there is an end game I can’t see it yet. I am already worried that I will have to survive without it. Someone asking me to give it up — the idea of that is enough to start the panic rising. It is early days. Nobody knows about this yet. I have time to adjust.
I keep thinking, saying, repeating the mantra, don’t take this, please don’t take this, take vodka. If I have to give up anything let it be vodka. I had no idea it mattered. Not that much. It might not. Given time and understanding it might be one of those things that just falls into disrepair from lack of use.
I haven’t reached any conclusions. I don’t even quite understand its inner workings yet.
If it is that common, if so many of us have a form of it, albeit named something else, how come we don’t know more about it? Or do we and I just haven’t been listening again. That keeps happening. It’s almost as if I was trying to avoid the issue.
The latest, hot off the press twist is that there is a distinct possibility that it has been messing about without me even being aware of its movements. Now that does freak me out a bit. It was bad enough when I thought I had a handle on it.
Oh and breaking news, there are two types, and it looks as if I have both of them. Well, isn’t that just fine and dandy.
There’s no simple answer. That’s what I’m starting to learn about abuse. No fixes. No neat stories. No good reasons. Just pieces. Just mess. Just a life you have to find a way to carry. no punchline no clever sign-off no simple answer.
. . .
Open Journal #14
I am minded to apply a Tigger warning, but to be honest in my whole life i have never met another living soul whose parents did this to them. So i don’t think a Tigger warning is needed. On the off chance that you were also locked in your room all the time consider yourself Tiggered.
I want to talk about being locked in my room. I have only just started talking about this so i am not expecting deep thoughts or well structured considered arguments. Actually never expect those things, i am not known for my depth or courtroom like rapier incisive constructs.
This has always been an aside, an afterthought. Oh and he would lock me in my room, a lot. The longest was for two weeks but it could be for just an hour.
It made me so fucking angry.
I didn’t like the isolation.
I would read and sleep and wank and daydream.
You know the kinds of things prisoners do.
It made me feel like i was nothing.
Sometimes i would have to sit on my bed and not move and then he would lock me in and i would just sit there not moving because i was scared what he would do if i did move. It was probably only an hour but it felt like forever.
i was very lonely.
My sisters were never punished in this way. Just me. I used to think it was because boys were naughtier and had different punishments.
I didn’t think it was wrong. I probably still don’t.
Of course it’s wrong. It’s no way to treat a child.
Because it happened so much i just think of it as normal.
So it is difficult when people say it is wrong because it happened and nobody stopped it.
As i have started to speak about it people say things like ‘it’s not normal’ ‘it’s extreme’ it’s not how you should treat children. None of which are true for me. it is very normal, well it wasn’t rare so what makes it extreme?, it was how this child was treated so that’s not true.
Other people knew, my sisters, my step-mother, they let me out to use the bathroom, then locked me in again. I mean i understand that they had no choice but they still did it. At that age it was very hard for me to separate action from intent or motive.
I could hear children playing outside on a summers evening but i was locked in here. I could hear the tv theme of a favourite show and i was missing it because i was locked in here.
I fucking hated it so much.
I hated that it happened and i hated that everybody knew it was happening, it left me feeling like a 2nd class citizen in the family.
Until a few days ago it had never been mentioned. Nobody ever referred to it, nobody asked me about it. Then again nor did i. I didn’t grow up and challenge him, take him to task, question him, demand an explanation. Everybody would rather forget it.
I can’t forget it. I never have.
I sometimes think it was worse than the punching and the kicking.
when you are hit it is over with right away. This lingers. This leaves a bruise on your soul. This damaged my self esteem in a way that has left me feeling less than.
When i was 16 I was told that this wasn’t my mother. Mine had died when i was 12 weeks old. So then i used to think it was because i reminded him of my mother. Better if i was locked away and he didn’t have to look at me. It didn’t make me feel better, but it was a reason, well some of a reason. I am quite used to not understanding why something was done to me. It has a familiar feel to it. I have been here before so this time might be easier, well if nothing else i will quickly reach the plateau of not having any answers. A clear and concise sense of not having a clue.
Over the last 48 hours i have written about it for my mentor and i have thought about it a lot. It is strange to be thinking about it and speaking about it, to be able to explore it and start to understand it. The process feels very like the sexual abuse process. It has similar emotions and feelings. I think it has done some of the same damage and might have even been there first in some cases.
By the time i was in the hands of my sexual abuser i was already able to disassociate, i was certainly conditioned and controlled. So maybe my abuser got me ready prepped and just took me deeper very quickly. Maybe it just made everything much easier to sexually abuse me. Not that there is anything to be gained by carving up the blame. Everyone is dead and i am dead inside. Drama queen much!
This morning I’m so tired from all the broken sleep and nightmares and overthinking. I roamed around Apple Music looking for something, anything, a playlist that didn’t sound like wallpaper. I ended up on Olly Alexander / Years & Years essentials. As I clicked on it, I thought, yeah, this would really piss off my father. Olly’s loud, proud, not sorry for a damn thing. I’m probably playing it in my bedroom right now, really fucking loud, giving him the finger. it’ll do for today.
. . .
Open Journal #15
I got banned from chat. Obviously I don’t think I should have been, and I’m arguing my point, but not here. I’m four weeks into nightmares and broken sleep, sitting here at 3am alone, missing the company and the support. I’m left sitting with my own rage again.
I started thinking about my inner rage and how it probably pushes me to speak out when it would be smarter to say nothing. I’ve touched on this with The Mentor, but we haven’t fully started on it yet. Maybe it should move up the list. There is a list. It’s growing instead of shrinking.
I believe in that old maxim: “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” (Edmund Burke). If you’re in the room, you speak up. Your silence might look like assent. No, I don’t know who Edmund Burke was. I looked it up once — he was an MP who died in 1797 — but honestly, who keeps that info? I always find it baffling when crossword clues think giving you a death date helps. I digress.
This time I didn’t use swears or name-calling. I think it’s wrong to be unkind to people who volunteer. In other settings, sure, I have a full range of Anglo-Saxon words at my disposal, and I’ll throw them around if needed. If you tell me something funny, I’ll laugh; if you make me angry, I’ll say so. The problem is, recently, I keep circling something deeper. Something I never even knew was there, something I don’t even have proper words for yet.
It feels like something inside me is broken at the code level. Like the source code was tampered with. Massive chunks rewritten. I don’t read code, so I can’t just pick up my own damage and fix it. My wife can — she scrolls through it like she’s reading French, tweaks a few things, and boom, fixed. Freaky and awesome. I wish I had that skill.
So here’s my theory: if people who can read my code are saying there’s a reason for the glitches, maybe I should listen. I know nothing. They know something. This anger, rage, blind fury — it’s glitchy. It’s fueled by the abuse. Even if I can’t see it, I can feel it. There’s always been that faint internal scream: “Of course I’m fucking angry, don’t you know what he did?” Obviously you can’t shout that mid-road-rage, but oh well. We’ve all done it. (Unless you don’t drive. In which case, is bus rage a thing?)
Maybe you’re starting to see why I’ve avoided this navel-gazing exercise for so long. It’s not because I’m lazy; it’s because the anger owns me. Like the abuse owns me. It’s had a vice grip on parts of my life it had no business touching.
Hidden in plain sight. I keep coming back to that phrase. It was there, but I couldn’t see it. I have to ignore the flood of idiot-shame that washes over me when I realize it. It was there all along. Once, an old school friend who’d been in the army casually offered to “remove” the abuser from the planet. Ask me on the wrong day, and my answer might not have been so reasoned. I said no, and if I hadn’t, well — best not to talk about it here.
But if anger is all I’ve ever known, what happens when it’s gone?
If I face the real root of the rage, will it destroy me? I’m scared. Scared that when we edit the broken code, I won’t like what’s left. If anger isn’t driving me anymore, then what is? Do I become some calm, rational alien version of myself? Or does it just leave a blank space I have to rebuild from scratch? Am I going to find out first during a “mild” altercation over someone cutting me off in traffic?
I keep getting glimpses of where this is heading and I’m not keen. I struggle to trust the process. I struggle to trust the truth. Mostly, I struggle to trust myself to be up to the task. I have no idea what’s left when you strip away the damage. I’ve asked myself a thousand times what I could have been if this had never happened. I might find out — and I might not like the answer.
I mean, look, I have a wife and dogs and friends. I have a home, croissants for breakfast, new headphones for my birthday. I could just leave it all alone. I’ve coped this far. Why not leave well enough alone?
Because it wasn’t his to take. Or tamper with. Or touch.
For all the times my mouth spoke out of turn — I’m sorry if what I said hurt you. That was never the intent. I’m sorry if my anger leaks into my words. That wasn’t the intent. I’m truly sorry if my abuse was showing. That was never the intent.
The content was on point. I just need to work on the delivery.
. . .
Open Journal #16
This is the second night of not being allowed in chat.
I’m sure it’s supposed to be a punishment, though I’m still not sure what for. I made a complaint and asked for the decision to be reversed. Nothing yet. And at this rate, there won’t be a decision until the punishment is complete, so saying anything was probably pointless.
I understand they’re busy. I even understand the role of a moderator; I did it myself for a few years. It’s often a thankless task. I suppose I hoped they would look at the conversation and see that the punishment didn’t fit the crime – if there even was a crime.
I tried to avoid the usual he said/he said. So much online chatter breaks down over tone and intent — the gap between what’s meant and what’s heard. I know. I’ve lived there.
When we were first married, my wife and I worked abroad for a leading software house, early adopters of the groundbreaking idea of a home computer. We’ve been talking to people online since before a lot of you were born. I am no stranger to the misunderstandings that happen when you type your soul into a glowing box and hope someone reads it right.
This time, though, it couldn’t matter more.
I had just told The Mentor that maybe it was time we took our foot off the gas. Three solid weeks of talking. I wasn’t in danger. Maybe it was time to be a bit grown up. Build in a pause. Stop thinking about it all every minute of the day. Ok, every other minute. Besides, I was acutely aware of the time he was giving me. It was about time I let him off the hook a little.
So we agreed: Friday, I would send my last missive, and he could reply or not as he liked. I wouldn’t post again until Monday morning; he wouldn’t check until Monday evening. A sensible weekly plan. No surprises.
Friday morning, my wife left to organise a running event, leaving me and the dogs to fend for ourselves. I spent the morning writing to The Mentor, as I do — writing, sitting with it, tweaking, rewording. I sent it off early afternoon.
Silence.
I went into chat to see who was around — I had an hour to kill.
Three weeks ago, I’d never heard of you. Had no need for you. If someone had suggested you to me, I might have laughed. Or you would have laughed at me.
I’m not going to gush. I won’t embarrass either of us by being un-British and talking about feelings or other such nonsense. But in three weeks, you created a feeling of trust and security so strong that I spoke of things I had carried silently for over fifty years. You might think it’s an everyday occurrence here. Run of the mill. Probably happened to you when you first arrived.
It’s no mean feat. A heady mix of kindness, concern, and empathy. I have sat at the back of the room and watched you do it for others, those who came after me. I don’t think I could ever do what you do. You bring patience, wisdom, a sense of brotherhood that draws people in.
When I find myself alone with a new person wandering aimlessly, I just panic. I switch off the joke button for fear of offending. I make conversation and I listen. But it just makes me want to cry and hug them — both utterly useless gestures in a digital world.
My point is, you are brilliant, and I am glad I found you.
Right now, though, I have to cope without you, and I don’t like it.
I tried talking quietly with people via direct messages. Until someone warned me that our messages were probably being read. That messed with my head. I don’t want to get anyone into trouble. And in my current mood, if I spoke freely, it would be inevitable. So I stopped. Silence is safer.
Weirdly, I had just started to unlearn that particular silence.
I think the person who handed out this punishment is a bit of a bully. Every interaction with them has been unpleasant. I was already being cautious, keeping my distance.
If it’s personal — if he just doesn’t like me or what I say — well, I can’t argue with that. I feel the same way about myself.
If the idea was to hurt me, it worked. If the idea was to teach me a lesson, I’m slightly concerned I have learnt the wrong ones.
I have learnt that he is not to be trusted. That this place matters to me. That I am not able to do this without you. And that the night can be very lonely and very dark.
. . .
Open Journal #17
A couple of days ago, I was writing to The Mentor. I write about what I am feeling, what I have discovered, what I have talked about with people, what I have read. He sends it back with comments and thoughts and links and things for me to think about or where to go next. It’s a dialogue.
It’s a dialogue with a man I have never met, who lives thousands of miles away, or maybe around the corner, who I have told more secrets to than anyone else in my entire life. I have shared my innermost thoughts and feelings, described bad things that have happened to me, discussed how my brain and body behave and react. If you had told me three weeks ago I would be doing this, I would have thought you deranged. The most a group of close friends know is the fact it happened and the who, where and when. I don’t do this, and it takes some adjusting to. Just the fact that someone else knows what I know causes me to panic at regular intervals. The knowledge that I posted an outline of my story and over two hundred people have read it can make me feel physically sick if I dwell on it for too long.
Maybe decades of keeping a secret and locking it down creates an aversion to speaking about it. Maybe it’s the early warning system that was beaten into me — the message that if I uttered a word, worse would follow. Whatever it is, it’s psychological carnage, and it doesn’t allow me to share easily. In the end, I have to rely on a logical little mantra of absolute truths to calm me and stop me hitting panic buttons.
I have a thing about being honest. I’ve been lied to, deceived, manipulated enough for several lifetimes. So my aim with this process was to apply the principle of honesty to everything — anything I feel or think about anything to do with any of my abuse. Not to shy away from harsh truths, or to diminish my own behaviour for the sake of discomfort or embarrassment. Writing to The Mentor like that means examining my soul a bit, facing things bluntly. Sometimes, in the middle of that kind of thinking, something forgotten surfaces.
Quite some time ago now, I made statements to the police about my abuse and an investigation happened. As part of that process, I hired a specialist law firm to look into suing the school — and just to have legal representation, in case it was needed. The first thing they did was gather together every scrap of paperwork they could find: facts, timelines, information about me, about the abuser, about the school. Some of that paperwork included my entire medical records from birth to present day. Huge files of social worker reports covering from my birth to about nineteen years old.
When I was born, my mother died twelve weeks later, and I was placed into a series of foster homes for a couple of years. Social workers were involved from the beginning of my life. I don’t have a single memory of those first two years.
The paperwork had just sat in a cupboard for decades. I had never read it. I assumed if there had been anything important in it, my lawyers would have raised it with me. But of course, the lawyers were looking for facts, things that helped their mission. For me, there were different things.
A few days ago, after years of ignoring them, I had a look. Everything was filed in date order, so my childhood was laid out like a map. All the discussions of my childhood, the things I have been re-living and speaking about, suddenly slotted into a framework. Names of people and places. Addresses. Dates when things happened. Suddenly things weren’t vague or blurry anymore — they could be focused a little. I didn’t have to say ‘around about this age’. I could tell you the day, the month, and the year.
The papers also gave me comments, asides, footnotes on my life. At least half a dozen people commenting on my father, telling social workers he had beaten me for some misdemeanour, sending me to my room. People sticking up for me, defending me, fighting for me. There was a letter detailing another occasion my abuser had attempted to take me away from the children’s home (blocked by an unconvinced member of staff) and requesting that the headmaster of my boarding school could vouch for him — or not.
At one point, a social worker — a lovely man who really took care of me — took me home after I had run away. His comment in his report was that with parents like mine, he was not surprised I was disturbed. He also noted that I had a mordant sense of humour — sarcastic and acerbic, apparently. I’m ok with that. I’m calling that my first review.
All of it added texture and colour to the storyline, and helped me to feel that, unknown to me, there were people asking the right questions. I imagine at the time I wasn’t providing any answers. If I had been asked or questioned, I would have been silent for fear of repercussions.
The next morning I was woken once again by horrific dreams. I sat at my desk looking at the pile of papers I had been working through the day before, pondering how ironic it was that they had just been sitting there all this time.
It’s too early to tell if this will have any lasting impact. I know it has helped me. I know it has been a positive thing. I know that today feels better than yesterday, just a little bit.
. . .
Open Journal #18
The ban was lifted. I needed those couple of days to think about what happened next. What I felt about it. What it meant.
As is often the way because of time zones, the chat rooms can be empty. I will often sit in one on my own and play music. I’ll write something on the wall, part of the practising thing. Something I want to think about, a few lines of for and against, or a lyric from a song. If someone comes in they see a blank wall, no risk of embarrassment. It made me realise how deep the damage goes.
Hanging out in the Treehouse, I was joined by two men. I would say friends, but I wouldn’t like to assume anything. I like them both, I trust them, I adore their sense of humour. We had a conversation about my behaviour, the thing that got me banned. They were loving and caring and they explained what I had done. I was mortified.
I had spent three days and nights convinced I was right, justified in what I had said. Absolute in my belief that the person I was arguing with deserved my ridicule and that I had every right to be dismissive.
I asked them both if they thought he was a bully. They assured me they had known him for years and he was anything but. I was destroyed. I had no idea how I had got it this wrong and how I could have said the things I did in the way that I did.
I have talked about it with them, The Mentor, a handful of others. My conclusion is that we are back in that familiar area of trauma and damage. That will be on my fucking gravestone, and sooner than we think the way this is all going.
There is a knot of stuff inside me. Low self-esteem, fear of people hurting me, self-sabotage, a tendency to keep people at arm’s length for safety, an urge to destroy before I am destroyed. I don’t doubt the list is endless.
I am so tired and emotional at the moment that I have less control. I feel safe here, so I feel less need to control. Not having a clue really distresses me. On the one hand it is certifiable behaviour, on the other hand it shows how embedded the damage is and how unaware I have been of the wreckage I’ve been living with. Which I offer as explanation, not excuse.
I am fairly sure that by at least seven years old I could disassociate almost at will, and certainly had PTSD beaten into me, out of me, or something in between. There has been plenty of time for these things to get a grip.
I see the anger in me and I know it leaks out, inappropriately, without control, without any thought for damage limitation or safety of others. Wit is a nasty weapon if it isn’t handled with care. I have a heady disregard for the death of a relationship and will sacrifice anyone once the red mist descends.
I am sure a lot of the time I felt it was justified. Highly likely I was mistaken. Equally sure a lot of the time I was just plain wrong.
I have apologised to those involved. I had filed a complaint about the ban, convinced I had been wronged. Now I see I wasn’t as right as I thought. I asked that my complaint be withdrawn.
I also apologise to you. I was wrong to say the things I did in this journal. I am sorry for showing such disregard for a space I value so highly. I hope you can forgive me. I will endeavour to never behave in that manner again.
. . .
Open Journal #19
I understand that you probably know about this but this morning somebody told it to me for the first time
When you are not fed
love on a silver spoon,
you learn to
lick it off knives.
It hit me so deep
it made me cry
I felt it spread everywhere
we talked about it and agreed that it was the reason for so many things
It resonated and ended many things
it made me understand the phrase ‘it’s not your fault’ which I never got before
People have always said that to me, and I know they mean well, and I understand they believe it, but I don’t. I see myself agreeing to things, allowing things, not stopping things, and I think, ‘well you don’t know’. I fight the urge to question everything about the person who says it. How can I trust anything you say when you think that. You just don’t know what I know. It is very clearly my fault.
But if knives are what I have been licking, then of course it’s true. It’s not my fault. I was just licking knives, because that’s what was handed to me.
When things like that shift you can see hope.
I felt it vibrate across everything.
In a rush I started looking at things and understanding that if one thing was true then maybe others could be looked at again. This is going to take some time.
It explains addiction. It explains the ache. It explains the endless reaching. We weren’t given love, so we went looking for anything sharp enough to feel real. We licked knives.
i think it is why i let any man do any thing to me
that has just poured itself all over that
and it just feels like truth
it changes nothing but it changes everything
it gives it a reason
and I am very ok with that
I was just licking knives
this is going to be an emotional day
and all before breakfast
. . .
Open Journal #20
This last month I’ve slipped into being a bit of a recluse. Sleep broken by nightmares, half the night spent in the chat room or writing, and no real energy left for the outside world. Not that I had much desire to be around people anyway. The odd visitor to the house I could manage for an hour over coffee, but I was scratchy, nervous of being asked how I was, or what I had been up to, or anything that might require a real answer.
One thing I’ve realised is how much stress has come from being silenced. A unique set of circumstances meant my version of my abuse story has always been sanitised, palatable, easier for others to hear. Not something I’m prepared to do anymore. But I haven’t yet managed to create the new version — the honest version — so I’m stuck in limbo. Processing. Trying to find my feet. Nervous about how I want to present myself now that I know what I know.
I went to the opticians this week. Because I wear contact lenses, every two years they check the health of my eyes, scan them, fiddle with my eyelids, put their hands on my face. I find the whole thing very unpleasant. This time I was hyper-aware. I could feel myself starting to drift towards disassociation. I hadn’t realised before that I did that — probably just did it. But now, watching myself, I see it happen.
I started reasoning with myself. It’s just the optician. Someone I’ve seen for years. Someone who has never harmed me. Someone I quite like. And somehow, by the time I finished thinking all that, I was calm again. Breathing normally. I don’t know if the rational thinking made the difference, or if distraction just gave me enough space to breathe. Maybe you can have that kind of control. Maybe you can’t.
A favourite niece visited. She’s been doing therapy. I cross-examined her about it. I have tried to persuade someone here to record one of their sessions so I could see what it’s like, but they resisted. I told them they were being unhelpful. They didn’t mind.
I worry that I’m being drawn to the idea of therapy. I know it’s fraught with difficulty for me, and I can’t seem to navigate those feelings easily.
A friend dropped by unannounced for a coffee. Perfectly normal behaviour. I’ve always liked his company. Inevitably we hit the “how are you? / everything ok? / what you been up to?” line of questioning.
I had meant to prepare a press statement for situations like that. Something honest but safe. I hadn’t got around to it. So I figured we were close enough to risk the truth. I explained, to a real-life person for the first time, what I had been going through. About all of you. I was shaky and emotional. And it was fine. He couldn’t have been more caring and supportive.
We’ve worked together a lot. Our friend groups cross over. He told me there’s a tight group who always kept an eye on me. They knew there was pain. They thought I needed protecting. I did point out that was borderline creepy. But I appreciated it.
I’m not sure I could have that conversation often. I think I need something concise, rehearsed. Something honest, non-offensive, and suitable for mixed company.
The bigger dilemma is my family. Sooner or later, I have to decide what to say or not say. The way my father treated me. Why I don’t like Father’s Day. That conversation is coming.
There are three daughters. A clutch of grandchildren. Fourteen-plus people whose idea of their now-dead father and grandfather would shatter if I tell the truth. And I have to decide if I’m willing to do that. Or if I’m going to stay quiet for the rest of time.
I’ve gathered a few opinions. Explained my worries. So far, I’m no closer to a plan.
I just know I’m going to blurt it out at the wrong time, using the wrong words, and mess it up.
It doesn’t help that I keep discovering new ways he lied to me. And I have to keep the anger out of it. Otherwise it starts to feel like arguing with a ghost. And that is never a good look.
I can always go for the perfect family dinner line: well turns out our father was a right bastard wasn’t he, sorry I meant can you pass the salt.
. . .
a blog less ordinary 