If I could, I would like to give the mothers who do this to their vulnerable children some of my memories to live with. At least that way they would have a slight insight into the lives they are subjecting their children to, and they can see just how much their children will be affected by what is happening to them.
I wonder do they ever stop and think, ‘How much therapy will my child need? How will it affect their relationships in adult life?’ Or do they just think, ‘Well she’s only a child she won’t remember when she’s older?’
But we, the abused, do remember. Memories stay raw, they never go away, and just one word can transport you back to a time you thought you had successfully buried and rid yourself of.
I still have colourful flashbacks, flashbacks that have lessened in time but still remind me nonetheless. Sam could just whisper one word to me, and without him knowing, it would have been a word that I heard Bill say many, many moons ago. It’s like being in a time machine that delivers instant transportation back to 1972. I won’t tell Sam this because if I did, I know that he will never freely talk to me in bed at all, and then the new memories we create will be affected and tarnished by the past I still have to live with. Sam has never read my first book in its entirety, although he has read sections as I wrote them, and I shared some of the memories with him over those darkened nights when we lay together in our tent in Cornwall. He knows about as many of the details about my past abuse as he needs to know. I don’t have to enlighten him further, or paint a graphic picture using nothing but words for him to see or read. He has been hurt enough with me, and for me, by my memories.
If I had to be truly and totally honest with myself, I suspect that Sam knew of many times when he had said something that had made me think about the past, because when such a thing happened, I would usually go quieter than I had been previously.
My past is there in the background but it’s a past I cope and live with now, mainly because I took the time to write down my memories. I did a little research a while ago into Bill’s life. He died in 2002 in a town less than three miles from my front door. He lived until he was eighty-four years old.
When I look back at what he did to me, I wanted so dearly to punish him. I thought of reporting it to the police. If I had, there would have certainly been a court case and publicity. I have wrestled with my conscience because yes, I know what I should have done, but the abuse from this man, and from my father, and the abuse I very nearly got from a neighbour, was enough for me to handle. I had to deal with all of this while at the same time being the kind of mother to my children my own mother never was to me. I could never have exposed my boys to the publicity of an inquiry – I needed to protect them. They were, and still are, my priority.
Many people will judge me for this, but it is only when you have suffered this systematic kind of abuse that you are really in a position to judge. Living with the humiliation and disgust you feel is exceptionally hard for anyone, but for a child it’s almost unbearable. As a young girl facing this all those years ago, I was told not to tell, so I didn’t, regardless of what had already been done to me or would be done later on.
This was a time when children listened to and also feared adults. Today’s society is so very different. When I look back, yes I do regret not bringing my abusers to justice. At the time I would have got satisfaction from seeing them both behind bars I suppose. Would it have helped me? Who knows.
My memories will always be my memories and no kind of justice would have or could have taken those from me. They are mine to live with and mine to look after, whether I want them or not.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I BEGAN WALKING myself through my past when I was twenty-seven years old that morning in Dr Tranor’s room. That was when I first admitted to being a victim of sexual abuse. Abused by two men and almost the victim of a third. This was the first step. Since that day all those years ago, memories have been taken from me and shouldered by an array of different people, professional people, family and friends. It is these people that I cherish in my life.
Unfortunately, I have seen people upset and hurt, by my memories; they have cried tears and wept heavily with me, and for me. I never wanted anyone to be hurt but instinctively I knew they would be. I have had to endure being told not to tell or share my experiences with the world outside my door, because it was not something that I should do. As each day of my life has passed me by, I realise that I am lucky and blessed to be here today. I shared my experiences, even though they were terrible, because I know doing so is right for me.
I still know I should have brought these men to justice but I didn’t. I put my family first; they didn’t need to live my past, I had done that already.
I began writing the second part of my journey, this part, almost five years ago. I was just writing to ease my pain and to conclude a writing journey I had begun when I wrote Sarah’s Story. My writing journey is drawing to a close now and at last I feel my job is done. My memory box lid is firmly in place again, and this time I hope it doesn’t become tattered and torn. It has been placed securely in a location where it won’t be disturbed; I know where that is, but I’m not going to visit.
I’ve found a quiet place next to a winding river in Powys to begin writing about my parents and siblings. I am aware that I haven’t given you very much information about that part of my life. Whilst I sit here at the end of a long day’s travelling, red kites fly majestically above me, their beautiful colours emphasised by the sun as they drift this way and that, catching the day’s thermals. The water in the river is flowing gently over the rocks, making sounds that sooth and help me feel rested after my journey.
I had lived with my sisters and brother for the first part of my life until my family was divided by my parents’ divorce. This was when my mother first left us and took my youngest sister and brother with her, leaving me behind. Mum went to live near her sister on the other side of the country. We had no phone, so contact was lost. She said she couldn’t stay anymore and leaving was her only option. There was no long family discussion of the kind you hear families having today, telling family members all that needs to be told concerning an impending divorce. It just happened that Mum was here one week and gone the next.
What had happened had happened, and as children we had no say and our voices and words went unheard. We could give no preference as to which parent we wanted to live with. It was decided for us. I wonder if Dad had a plan for me, even at that moment in his life. Nevertheless, our fate was decided, choices snatched from our grasp. It was as if my parents had both stolen candy from a happy baby. All the sweet moments I’d experienced, the good parts of my life as a child, were gone. My younger sister, whom I had loved so dearly, and my brother, whom my eldest sister and I used to care for and take out for walks as a baby, were now gone.
Our memories were destroyed, taken from me from that moment on. My family was divided forever and my life was going to be so very different from that time forward. I knew that our family life wasn’t perfect. However, I loved my family and I always yearned for what was familiar. Life as an abused child was waiting just around the corner and would soon come knocking on the door. No one saved me, my family lay broken, and perhaps, if we had all still been together, then this terrible thing would not have happened to me.
My parents’ marriage was one like that of so many other parents I had witnessed. They spent time together, not on holidays or going out, just being at home. I never saw or witnessed intimate moments between them as husband and wife. I don’t mean intimate in a sexual way, I mean holding hands, having a cuddle or sharing kisses. It was only ever ‘yes love’ or ‘no love’ and on very rare occasions a kiss on the cheek.
Dad had never really worked much since he left the window-cleaning round that he shared with his brother. He was ill for a very long time. He had a nervous breakdown when we were small children and spent six months in a mental institution. We visited him once a month on a Sunday between the hours of two and
four. Although I only ever remember two visits, for some reason I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t at home, which is strange. One day he went away in an ambulance and six months later he came home again.
He never worked properly again, apart from a little part-time job he held at the local cotton mill. He enjoyed this work but had to leave when his impetigo flared up. He spent lots of time in his garden growing flowers and vegetables. This was his sanctuary, somewhere to hide in his younger days, away from my mum and her nagging. As children my sisters, brother and I weren’t allowed in his garden – even playing on the tiny lawn wasn’t allowed. If we went into the garden, we were only allowed to sit down. We couldn’t make noises either. We had to play in the street at the front because if we took a ball in the garden we were in danger of damaging his precious plants, which would have caused Dad to go berserk. A broken plant would mean a good hiding, unless of course we weren’t caught.
I’m not sure at what moment in my life my father decided he should abuse me or how long he had thought about it, or even if it played on his mind. It could have just been something he woke up and decided to do that day. I have no answers to my questions. I often wondered if their marriage had not fallen apart, would I have been introduced to the monster I got to know so well?
My mum had been an ‘all right’ mum. She was no domestic goddess or whizz in the kitchen, but with four children to look after, I believe she tried to be a good mother, especially when we were all really young. She had no family network close by to help her, just my dad. She came from a large family, a hard-working family. Her mother, my nana, was of Irish descent; as was her father, my granddad.
They worked religiously and had strong family values, but my nana hated the fact that Mum had four children. I once overheard her saying that four was too many, and that why couldn’t she stop at two? One of my aunts had four children but that was fine; after all my nana liked my aunt’s husband far more than she did my father. I think that was where the problems lay.
My nana was an amazing cook and baked the most fantastic cakes. I loved the memories that I have of her in her Westmorland kitchen on one of the rare times I got to stay. My granddad was simply amazing, the best there is. I know that many people claim to have an amazing grandfather but mine was just so special. He always had smiling eyes and there was complete love in his face when he looked at us. You never got half measures with my granddad and he never said anything untoward in front of his grandchildren. He was spectacular. Why? Because he was my granddad and I loved him so very much.
As a young child, I remember visits from my nana and granddad were quite regular. We’d sit at the corner of the square where we used to live, watching for their Morris Minor trundling over the cobbles in the street as they arrived. I adored their visits and now, as I look back, I realise we were so blessed to have such amazing grandparents in our lives.
I wish life had always been this uncomplicated, because now I wonder if the joy I’d had as a young child was too much joy. Perhaps I had done something wrong, who knows?
Once Mum and Dad went through their divorce, I never saw them again until I was an adult and capable of visiting them myself.
My parents are both dead now. Dad died in 1997, and my mum passed away a few months ago of cancer, just as my father had. Mum and I stopped talking three years ago, partly, I thought, because of my writing. I now know it was solely because of my writing. I just don’t know if she hated the fact that I had put my words on paper and it had been published, or if she just couldn’t come to terms with the abuse I had suffered at the hands of her friend and the man she once called her husband. She never came to terms with it, ever.
I won’t apologise for handling my abuse this way. I just hoped that one day she would be proud to say, ‘Yes Sarah’s my daughter and she is the author of Sarah’s Story.’ She never acknowledged what I had written, she just wanted it to be buried like my memories, hidden from the people she knew and was afraid would judge her and the kind of mother she had been. She did read what I had written. In fact, as far as I know, this was the one and only book that she read in my lifetime. I don’t judge her; I only wish that things had been different and that she had understood my need to do this. I tried to face up to her on many occasions but it always ended in harsh words being spoken, sometimes in earshot of my children. I detested her for that, especially when they heard some of the things she said.
After my youngest sister told me that Mum was ill, I wrestled with my emotions for such a very long time. I wanted to go to see her, to put the past aside. I thought long and hard about it, but each time I was ready to pick up my basket of courage I’d left by the front door, someone had stolen it. I kept thinking today will be different, she’ll be different. Mum will welcome me with open arms and we will talk in the same way we used to, just as we had years earlier when my boys were little.
I never found that courage because my memories would dive out at me with the force of an earthquake, reminding me of the ugly things she had said to me in the past. And there were a lot of very ugly things said. I wanted desperately not to have these memories of my mother accompanying the other memories that were in my box. Instead, I housed these on a shelf of their very own that now sat in the middle of my memory box. I didn’t want to put them in the ‘bad memory’ pile because they weren’t as bad as those that lived there; they weren’t even in the same category. However, I still saw them as bad memories and they gave me sleepless nights all the same.
I wished I had understood her enough to have a different opinion. Mum could have been the mother I so desperately needed to be with, had she only accepted my past and not let other people’s thoughts and feelings blind her. She would always worry about what others thought. She was like that. Too busy worrying about other people’s opinions of her, rather than standing up to them and saying it didn’t matter what they thought. I feel saddened because Mum had many chances over the years to help me, to be part of my recovery. She chose a different path, however. I will never fully understand the way she had reacted. She was my mum. My mum who was more frightened of the truth being revealed than I was. I wanted so much to see her before she died. As her cancer progressed, I wanted to reach out to her, but then I felt a sense of guilt at the thought of waiting until she was almost at the end of her life before I had made an effort to see her.
Instead, as I wrestled with my emotions, thoughts and feelings, the opportunity slipped by, and with it my basket of courage. I never said goodbye to her because I was frightened of still being blamed for my past. Blame I don’t deserve. She went to her grave missing her daughter. Had she reacted differently at a time when we needed each other, then I think the last few months would have been so very different. Life could have been so different for me.
My siblings have their own lives. I haven’t spoken to my two youngest siblings for a very long time. My brother decided he wanted to be alone and away from the family when my father died. He had his reasons, reasons I didn’t understand. I just put it down to the fact that this was how he wished to grieve for his loss, his way.
What’s more, my youngest sister stood by Mum and all she said. There was even a time when she even doubted that my father had abused me. She wasn’t there at the time: she had moved to Lincolnshire with my mum when my parents had divorced. It hurts bitterly that my own sister could think that I could even contemplate lying about such a despicable, terrible thing. There was a time when I missed them dearly and felt that as a family we should stick together, but I know that we all have our own paths in life to tread. I have a wonderful relationship with my eldest sister; we are the foundation stones of what is left of the unit that was once my family.
Epilogue
MY WRITING WAS the start of a miracle; a miracle that carried me and helped me to climb the hill of hope, where it showed me the light I needed to capture in my life and keep burning bright. This is my light of hope – hope for my future. I keep this light safe inside; it warms my heart and il
luminates the new life I now am lucky enough to have.
My life has also been blessed with grandchildren now, who never stop smiling and laughing. They are the greatest miracles. Together as a family we are walking forward to a new place full of precious dreams and new memories. I am very fortunate to be in this position because I know of abuse victims who can’t have the children they so desperately want in their adult lives. I was one of the lucky ones. I just didn’t know how lucky I was.
Many women go through, and at this moment, young children are still experiencing the things I was subjected to. More often than not they go through far worse. Each one of them will be affected in different ways. Some will be strong, some won’t. Each one of them will be a statistic, a statistic the world does not need. I wonder, if I did a survey, what the percentage of abused females would be? Twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, forty? I just know it will be far greater than any of us realise. The saddest part is that not enough will survive their ordeals.
The time I lived through my abuse sits firmly secured in my memory bank. Monsters that pray on the young and the innocent shouldn’t be allowed to roam free, coming out of their dark, dank shadows to play games we don’t want them to play. I have grown to realise that as a society we need to do more. A new approach is what is needed because some of the old ones allow these predators to still do what they do best: taking the innocence and beauty away from our children.
I think it is important that each child has its rights recognised and not be swept away like they are inconsequential specks of dust by people who should be loving and protecting towards them. I want my book to be a beginning that will put some of you, when you read this, on a road to recovery that will make you whole again. Allowing you all to be real people, to live your lives again, and to not get lost in the same world where I was once lost, where I thought I was worthless and dead.
Escaping the Darkness Page 14
