Escaping the Darkness

by Sarah Preston

  But I managed to reconcile my fears with one thought: no one would find my slip of paper buried that close to the old pier. I knew it was safe from discovery, and also I realised how daft I was to think anyone would be interested in a sand-covered, damp, scrunched-up piece of paper like that anyway.

  On Monday, the day after I knew the tide had taken away the record of my past, unusually I felt far better than I had done recently. The sun was shining and with it came a sense of freedom I had never encountered before. My whole body felt like it was floating into a new life.

  As we drove to work I told Sam how different I felt and I explained to him what I had done the day before. Sam looked at me and there was compassion in his eyes. As I met his gaze, I spoke quietly:

  ‘It’s okay, I know it was the right thing to do, it just felt so right.’

  ‘I know, Sarah,’ he replied. ‘I can tell. You just seem so different, it’s as if another person is carrying you along. How do you feel now you have been to the beach and buried that piece of paper?’

  I thought for a few seconds before I replied to Sam. How did I feel? Relieved I think is the word I was looking for and that’s what I told Sam.

  He already knew that what I had done had been the right thing for me, just as much as I did, too. This feeling of freedom lasted for ten wonderful months, and then one night my past returned, carried in on a strong, ill-gotten wind. It arrived complete with the box full of dusty memories it had left with, shattering my sleep once more.

  Chapter Twenty

  I DIDN’T KNOW what to do or who to talk to. Was this really happening all over again? Why could I not get rid of this vile mental rubbish as easily as I got rid of the physical rubbish each week from the house? I wanted answers. I tried harder than ever to dig them out of the deep crevice they had become entombed in.

  In my head a carousel was starting up again, but instead of it going at a gentle speed, it was whirring round like one of those waltzers in the fairgrounds that used to visit our town in my youth. My elder sister used to love the fast rides but I never went on one, not until I was older, because they used to make me sick. I was much more at home on the Ferris wheel. I decided to write out my thoughts again and try burying them in the sand again, but this time I’d dig the hole a little deeper. I went to the beach the next morning and did exactly the same thing as I had done before; the only difference being that now the hole I dug was substantially deeper than before.

  It was no good. As each hour passed and the next day approached, I continued to feel uneasy regardless of the turning tide. What could I do? How was I supposed to think of something else to try when my mind was already past exhaustion and heading towards meltdown mode at an alarming rate? That night I sat up in bed working on my laptop. I had been doing some planning, which I had started earlier that evening, when I decided to open up a new Word document and write down my thoughts, about whatever came into my mind.

  In front of me was this bright, white, blank screen screaming out at me, begging me for words. Words that would cover it to make it useful, rather than useless. I started pressing the keys, willing the letters to appear; as each one was pressed down in slow succession, I suddenly found every one of my finger movements gathering speed. The words left my aching head, made the journey down my tired arms and left me through my fingertips. As each word appeared on the screen, I was surprised at my ability to write all my thoughts down, especially when they appeared with such startling clarity after all this time.

  As each one of my thoughts appeared on the screen in front of me, I gave way to the memories I had kept hidden and my heart wept. As I read the words back, I was amazed at what I had been through. Why had I never stood up and told my story before now? Where had this strength come from that was now holding me upright? This fortitude seemed to me like a single finely carved oak leg supporting a table top alone before the three others joined it and spread the load. How had I been strong enough to survive all I had been through?

  Just as always, I couldn’t find the answers. All I knew was that I was relieved to be writing and removing the memories that had haunted me, like the most evil of spirits, for the best part of my life. I continued to write over the next few nights, typing late into the night and into the early morning hours. Once I started it was like a new adrenalin-type drug I couldn’t get enough of, carrying me forward in time. I wanted to be free and the more I typed the more anxious I was to achieve freedom. I told Sam what I was doing and why. He was amazed to hear just how much better I seemed to be and the relief I now felt.

  At first I think Sam may have been a little sceptical, but he never said it in as many words. He worried about me, and the fact that I was staying up long into the night to write and then still going into work the day after. I don’t know where the strength came from that visited me and stayed by my side for the whole four months I was writing my story, Sarah’s Story. I was just glad of its company and the understanding that Sam gave me, too. He kept me topped up with lots of fresh tea and stayed awake with me throughout. He never once complained or asked me if I thought I had written enough yet. He just stayed patient. Not sleeping, just waiting.

  One night I wrote four thousand words. The sheer volume of my inner thoughts and feelings amazed me. I became aware that every word that ended up appearing on the screen was precious and was there for a reason. The hardest words to read or even look at were the words that carried with them the more serious parts of the abuse that I had been subjected to. Seeing the words ‘oral sex’ made me want to scream out as loudly as I could and shout it from the highest mountain, but I couldn’t understand why this was. After all, I had spoken about it with Bess and I thought this had been enough to rid me of my memories, but I found it wasn’t. Seeing it there, two little words, fixed to the screen, each one staring back at me, brought all of the memory visions clearly back to life.

  My father and Bill were two men who were similar in lots of ways. They each took parts of me that were mine, and should have always been mine. I had wanted to keep my life intact but instead, each valuable, precious piece of ‘me’ had been chipped at and damaged, and had remained damaged for far too long. Yet who cared? Sam cared, and he let me know it.

  But did anyone else?

  Throughout my adult life I have shared my experiences with people I love and people I have got to know. One of the saddest things is when I have decided to tell the details of my abuse to people I have grown to know and feel comfortable with, especially those I feel are my friends, some have handled the knowledge in a way I find totally unbelievable. Once I have told them, they usually appear surprised and very supportive. Some of them, however, have subsequently gone out of their way to avoid me. It is almost as if I was carrying the plague. But I wasn’t. I’m not.

  I’m not sure why some people reacted in this way, but I found it very distressing, particularly since I never wanted these memories to be part of my life. I have told people, not in order to shock them, but because talking was supposed to be one of the ways in which I could feel at ease with my past. Instead of that, certain people’s reactions just made me believe that I was still to blame for what had happened. Bess’s words during our counselling sessions had become worthless. I know what happened to me was not my fault, yet somehow the people I knew, the ones I shared my past with, have made me feel like it was always my fault.

  Now, if I pluck up courage to tell someone, I usually say, ‘Did you know that as a child I was abused for four-and-a-half years? It doesn’t bother most people. I am still the same person and they know that. Some folk think it’s a strange thing for me to say, and then don’t talk to me for the next few weeks. Sometimes they stop talking completely. I hope you won’t react in that way.’ That approach usually does the trick, but last year, when I told one of our newest friends (by ‘new’ I mean I had known him for three years) he disappeared and stopped phoning the house or answering our calls. He was Sam’s friend too, and I find it very sad that someone would ‘unfriend�
�� him in such a way.

  These are the people who I don’t need in my life. My true friends are those who know about my past, ask if I’m okay and are always there if I need them. These are the ones who are able to empathise with me, even though they haven’t had my experiences. These are the friends who have remained true, stayed with me and loved me for who I am. It’s because of them I have learnt to accept my past. It has been a hard journey but one which has made me proud of who I am.

  After writing about living with the memories Bill and my father had left me with, I thought long and hard about what I should do next. I left my story – Sarah’s Story – inside my computer for over a year while I contemplated my options.

  Late one night, I sat up in bed talking to Sam and told him I wanted to help others but I didn’t know how. I wondered if what I had written was good enough to be published. Sam told me there was only one way to find out. So I posted off a synopsis and had a reply almost immediately from one of the publishers I sent it to: John Blake Publishing Ltd. I was asked to send everything I had written. I was beside myself, wondering if this was really happening to me? I was so excited, thinking, was I really going to get the chance to have my words in print? Secretly I thought they were just being kind, and that once they had read my work they would know it wasn’t in the same league as the books written by the more talented authors whom they normally publish.

  I got a phone call a few days later; it seemed that everything was happening so fast. John Blake personally called me and said that he wanted to publish my work. I was overjoyed, and the adrenalin rush began – it was the craziest feeling I have ever experienced in my whole life, and it was all because of one man’s belief in my abilities as a writer. I suddenly felt like everything I had been through was for a reason. I desperately wanted to give others courage and I also wanted my book to help other women who had been subjected to the ordeal of abuse.

  I had said to Sam before any of this became reality, all I wanted to do was help others – if I only helped one woman it would all be worth it. Once I had got to the point where my book was almost in print, I decided I should tell my sons about my past, too. I did not want any of them to see my book in a shop one day and put two and two together. They reacted in completely different ways to how I imagined they would react.

  During the early winter of 2007, I told each one of them in the same order as they had been born. Michael was my first-born and I imagined he would be upset but quite calm. He wasn’t calm. When I had finished telling him, his reaction was awful: he couldn’t handle what I was saying, and wanted to go out, find Bill and sort him out. He was convinced it was someone he knew. His reaction made me think twice about telling him about the abuse from his grandfather – I just couldn’t do it to him.

  I regretted that decision, because if he ever finds out the truth, I know he will be hurt far worse than ever. Michael cried and was very upset that day and for weeks afterwards. I don’t know how he came through this terrible ordeal that I’d caused him to take part in, but he did, and because of it, the mother/son bond that was already strong between us became even stronger. I also told Michael about the book I had written and he was so proud of me having the courage to face my past.

  James was completely different. I told him and he said he was sorry about what had happened to me. I also told him I had written my story down. James said, ‘Mum if it helps you then great, it’s great that you’re not letting it bother you anymore and you’re getting on with your life. Go for it.’ How young he was and how little he knew of the trauma that I had lived through.

  Andrew reacted in a way I half expected. I told him what had happened, and that as a child I had suffered and been abused. He asked me if I was all right, and I told him that I was. And then in his true ADHD-style we started a conversation about twenty different things at the same time. Eventually he said, ‘I’ve got to get up early tomorrow Mum, I’m going out for a long ride on my bike…’ Nothing further was said about what had happened in my past.

  The next day William sat quietly on the settee with his brother Timothy. I had decided that as my two youngest sons still lived at home with Sam and me, then I should tell them together. William remained very quiet – he was always quiet so this was nothing new. As soon as the words had left my mouth, Timothy jumped up and cried out, ‘Why are you telling me this crap? I don’t want to know!’ Timothy’s reaction was one of anger. I was shocked and I had not expected it.

  Later, when I spoke with Sam about it, he said he knew that was the way Timothy would react.

  As the weeks followed, I realised that to tell them about their grandfather as well would have been the wrong thing to do. I had also asked each one of them to promise me that once the book I had written was published, if they ever wanted to look at it, then they should talk to me first. I decided that if they ever ask or tell me they want to read my story, then I can then tell them about the other secret I still hold deep inside, if and whenever I need to. If they don’t ask, it will always stay deeply hidden where it belongs, safe and out of harm’s way. None of my sons have read my first book and I am truly thankful for this. This is my past and it should be just that, mine. They know it has been read by lots of people and they are proud that their mum has helped other people who are in a similar – or sometimes worse – situation deal with their past. I’m so very proud of them and the way they have come to terms with my past.

  I hoped that they would never know about their granddad’s secret, and mine too.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  SINCE I BEGAN my journey of recovery, the road I chose to tread has had lots of bumps and detours. I never believed that so many emotions could be lodged in one body: stuck so fast that they would need to be prised out with such intricate, careful precision, allowing them to be stripped bare and left unguarded – emotions that would be exposed mercilessly and left thrown on the ground for all to see.

  I am grateful for the sessions I had with Bess, because at the time I thought they were all I needed to recover from the abuse in my life. Bess was a wonderful woman and without her entering my life at that crucial time, I don’t think I would have ever made it this far. Yet I now know that you can never really recover from something this big. You just learn to manage your feelings and live with it in a more accepting way.

  Bess taught me that talking was a good thing to do, and I remember thinking at the time that I had been helped so much by Bess that I didn’t need to do anything else: I was cured! As time went by, I found I had a past of pain that wasn’t curable, and that knowledge of those experiences would always be there, sheltering in my memory box under the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign. It didn’t matter how deeply that wretched box became buried and pushed aside by new memories; it was there, always there.

  This thing, this abuse of the worst imaginable kind that a child could ever be made to endure, has altered my life in ways I didn’t want. I have had to come to terms with losing friends and being treated as a leper. I was even told that I should forgive the men who effectively stole my life. Forgiving them, I was told, was the only way I could be freed from the torment and unrest I felt. How do you bring yourself to that point, where you readily accept what has happened to you in such a way that forgiveness is possible? I have wrestled with so many emotions over the years. That was perhaps one of the hardest parts to deal with.

  The reaction from my mother through all of this, when she eventually found out, was shock for about five minutes, and then a desperate hope that no one should find out in case they blamed her. She still wants no one to know about it, even now. She even told my sister not to tell her friends that I had written a book, because she didn’t want people to find out I was her daughter. I get the distinct impression that she is ashamed of me – shouldn’t that be the other way around? Each time she voices her opinion I feel like saying, ‘But Mum this was my life, and yes, you were to blame, how can you not be, you left me with a man who was forty-seven years older than me and I know that you kne
w exactly what was happening to me.’

  I never say that though, I just think, oh well, if that’s how she feels I must have been to blame, too. So far I have never said anything to her and I won’t, even when she says, like she has twenty times already, ‘I hope you don’t blame me!’ In my heart I hope that other mothers aren’t as bad at handling the truth if they are unfortunate enough to hear similar words from their daughters. I long to know that they would be supported, nurtured and loved in a way a mother – and only a mother – can love and support her child after such an ordeal.

  I know from a letter I received, however, that there are mothers out there who are far worse. Mothers who tell their daughters, ‘It never happened, you dreamt it, you’re making it up, and don’t you know it’s a sin to say Daddy did that? He was only playing.’ As a mother I don’t know of any games that you play with Daddy where you take all your clothes off. I only know of the illegal ones that I was forced to play when I was young. These so called ‘games’ aren’t, and never will be, games to any child. Why is it that these women continue to protect the husbands who abuse and have abused their children? When I received that letter, it prompted me to think about other victims of abuse. For the first time I had confirmation that I was not alone. For years I secretly believed I was. Of course I knew I wasn’t the only one, but no one had actually put it in writing for me. The woman who wrote to me told me she now knew she had been abused. She was now aware that she wasn’t imagining it, like her mother had told her she had been. She said she had gained strength from me. This was one of the best tonics I could have had, for I had helped her and she, in return, had helped me, too.