The girls discussed the movies they saw at the cinemas; the clothes they bought; friends who stayed over; parties they went to; and the boys who kissed them. They talked about Tinkie’s love-life with Jamie; Tinkie’s horse and the competitions they won; Tinkie’s shopping trip to the big city with her Mom... and on it went.
I sighed. Once again I would have to make up bigger stories about the motor-biking with Anthony and the things I wished I’d done. I could never tell them about the movies I saw in the holidays. Even the shopping trip to get new clothes wasn’t fun because Dad went with and watched me try stuff on.
My fragile self-image had no strength to cope with rejection or criticism and I found myself crying even more often than before - if that was actually possible!
One day early in August, Mrs May, our English teacher, asked me to stay after class. It meant missing some of my break, but what choice did I have?
“Jane,” Mrs May’s voice seemed kind as she spoke. “Jane, I was wondering if you’re alright?”
I looked at her and could feel my chest tighten. Then tears immediately began to well up. Why could I not discuss myself just once, without tears?
“You seem very frightened, Jane. It’s as if you expect something bad to happen every time I talk to you. I really don’t eat my pupils for lunch.”
She smiled and I returned a misty smile. Mrs May pushed her brown, wispy curls back behind her ears. “Talk to me Jane. What makes you cry so often? Is it homesickness? It’s not natural to be homesick for so long!”
“I’m not homesick, Mrs May. I just don’t feel like I fit in. I’m different from all the other girls,” I answered awkwardly.
“Not really ….”
“I am, and they know it too. They laugh at me and make me feel bad about myself and then I cry. They all have fun in the holidays. They go shopping with their mothers and do nice things with their families. I don’t and it’s really hard to explain.”
“Is your home really that difficult, Jane?”
“Yes ….” I wanted to tell Mrs May about what my father had spent all holidays doing to me but should I?
Every time I thought of telling, those intimidating words would menace me. “If you tell anyone I will kill you. It is our secret. And no-one will believe you.…” He had said it so often.
I tried to speak. “I’m having a hard time at home. My stepmother hates me and she never lets me do anything with the babies. I can’t go shopping with her and … and my real mother hasn’t spoken to me in years. My dad … is not easy to get on with, and I don’t have friends at home … it is really lonely in the holidays. I often cry because of home. I’m always sad about things at home .…”
The teacher waited but I said no more.
“What about school, Jane? How are you finding things here?”
“I like boarding but now I’m finding the school work is getting really hard and sometimes my mind is not on the work … I think a lot about things at home …. It’s really hard to concentrate.”
I so wanted to tell….
‘No-one will believe you. They’ll just say you’re a bad person and you know you are. They will call you cheap. They will say you are a liar. Then he’ll kill you Jane.’
The conversation ended with Mrs May telling me to come and talk to her again if things got too difficult to bear. Paradoxically I was relieved.....
I hadn’t buckled and told - but perhaps I finally had an ally in the school.
I enjoyed the term for the most part but of course all the prayers in the world could not stop the wretched mid-term ‘closed’ weekend from arriving.
Monday 14 August 1989
I had another horrible weekend at home. My father never stops. I’m sick of him and I’m sick of my life. Just now I will tell someone and if he kills me I won’t care. I hate myself as I feel so dirty and worth nothing. I feel like rubbish when he’s finished touching me.
My side is getting very sore. I must have pulled a muscle at sport. I feel like vomiting.
Tuesday 15 August 1989
I have the worst stomach-ache ever and I feel so ill.
I haven’t told anyone because they say I am always acting and trying to get attention. I’m miserable. It feels so bad.
On Wednesday when the morning bell rang, so intense was the pain, I could barely dress. I tried to be strong and wanted to go to classes but ate almost nothing at breakfast and hobbled up to school. On the way I noticed a couple of girls nudging each other, whispering and giggling. One of them started to bend over and imitate me. Eventually in the second lesson, I couldn’t stand the pain anymore, so Megan carried my books to English.
“Jane what on earth is the matter with you? You’re walking like an old lady! And why is Megan carrying your books?”
“She has a really bad stitch, Ma’am,” answered Megan.
Mrs May looked doubtful.
“How long have you had this pain, Jane?”
“About three days. Since Monday.”
“And do you feel bad in any other way?”
“I feel like I want to throw up. I’ve been trying to do my work…but I think I maybe I should go and lie down.”
My face was sweaty and I was shivering. Mrs May said, “You’re looking very pale, Jane. I agree that you should go and lie down. Would you take her to the sick room, please Megan?”
I lay on the narrow bed in the small room next to the secretary’s office and waited for Matron to fetch me. When my matron came in, she placed her hand on my forehead, took my pulse, talked briefly to me and then I heard a quiet conversation between her and Mrs Martingale just outside the door. In a matter of minutes I was being placed in the car and taken to the doctor, “just in case”.
Dr Stanford smiled gently through light grey eyes. He was a kind-faced man in his thirties. He touched and pressed my abdomen in a variety of places and I nearly convulsed with pain. As I clung to Matron’s hand I think she was a bit surprised at my fear of doctors. I was shivering and feverish so the doctor wrapped me in a blanket. He made a phone call and then told Matron to take me through to the General Hospital.
I lay down on the back seat of the car where Matron gave me a pillow and covered me with a blanket. On the way, the pain built to a terrifying crescendo. I hardly dared breathe. The tears were rolling again. If only my Mom was here to hold my hand. Suddenly, I experienced an overwhelming sensation of relief.
“Matron Ruth, the pain’s not so bad anymore. It has nearly stopped,” I panted. Although I was still shivering I suggested that perhaps we should go home instead. I was desperate not to be a nuisance.
Matron slowed down, turned to look at me and said, “No way, Lady Jane. You’re as pale as a sheet. You need to see the doctors at the hospital first.”
Later Matron explained that Dr Stanford had phoned ahead so that as we arrived, a surgeon on call was ready to attend to me. He shone a torch in my eyes, gently prodded my stomach that was not as tender now, and took my temperature and pulse. Someone else took blood while Matron gave him the run down on what had transpired in the car. He just nodded and said, “Hmmm,” as he wrote some notes.
As they moved slightly away from the bed, talking in hushed tones, I heard the words: “... sounds like a possible ruptured appendix …” and something like “… her father will need to sign for an anaesthetic ….”
Suddenly nurses were asking me questions; they wanted my dad’s phone number; someone was filling in forms and someone else changed me into a tiny white gown that didn’t want to close properly. They covered me with a green sheet and told me I had a suspected burst appendix and needed an immediate operation. I was bewildered. A pill was popped under my tongue and I was told everything would be alright.
Things became a little hazy and it was difficult to focus. They wheeled me down long corridors past babies being carried by their mothers. I saw old people in wheelchairs with tubes in their arms and noses. Doors opened and closed as my trolley passed through and doctors, nurses and other p
eople dressed in green or white clothes seemed to be everywhere. We all went into an elevator and voices echoed round in my head as we continued down even more corridors. As in a strange dream, I clung to Matron Ruth’s hand until someone said, “Matron Ruth can’t come past here, Jane. You’ll have to let her go.”
I heard the words but couldn’t respond. My hand was lifted from Matron’s and I grasped back but my life-line became fuzzy and disappeared as my trolley was pushed into yet another room. Strange smells and sights assaulted my semi-conscious senses. I’d never been in hospital before and was overwhelmed. Next I was being wheeled through a heavy rubber curtain. They quickly lifted me onto a different table and someone said, “You’re going to have an operation, Jane. You need to relax now and breathe into this mask. You won’t feel the operation at all.” I was momentarily terrified. What would Dad and Joanne say? Now I’d really be in trouble.
The last I remember was staring into a huge shining light above me, trying to count to ten.
Thursday 17 August 1989
I’m in hospital as I had a burst appendix and they said it was an emergency. Appendix is part of your intestine. I was really scared and I didn’t know what was happening. When I woke up the nurses were trying to hold me down. They said I was shouting lots of things they didn’t understand and I was punching and kicking everyone.
My father and stepmother were there and they were telling me to stop kicking. They asked why I hadn’t called to tell them what happened. My arm was freezing, and strapped to an uncomfortable drip. I couldn’t answer their questions. I just wanted to sleep and I did. When I woke up I asked a nurse for a pen and paper so I can write about it.
Saturday 19 August 1989
I’ve had a reaction to iodine so I will be here about five days. Joanne came yesterday with biscuits and cakes and I can’t believe she’s being so nice to me.
My father came to visit today and asked me to walk around because I had pink P.J.’s that were a bit see-through. I was really sore but he made me walk. He asked if I’ve told anyone our secret. One day I will say yes just to give him a heart attack! Sister Jordan, the nurse, keeps making me laugh and it’s so sore that I almost hate her. But she says it’s to make my muscles stronger.
Monday 21 August 1989
I am going home later today. I’m sad. I like this hospital and you get to eat whatever you feel like. My father has been here often, asking if I’ve told anybody our secret. I’m really scared of going home as I know he’ll want to touch me and I’m so sore from this operation.
Tuesday 22 August 1989
Joanne fetched me yesterday. She came with the little ones.
For the first time, I was allowed to sit in the front of the car. She was all of a sudden so sweet to me. I felt awkward and spoilt. When we arrived home, Dad was waiting for me. I had to go to bed and soon he was talking to me and touching me in his way and asking me if I was sore. I said YES. He got cross with me. I started crying but I refused to let him near me and Joanne came in. She told me to go bath and she would change my dressings. I shut the windows so my father couldn’t look at me.
Wednesday 23 August 1989
Dad says I have to stay home for two weeks because of the operation. I told them I have to go back for exams; anything to get away. I know he will try to use me and I’m way too sore.
Chapter 16
“I cry aloud to the LORD;
I lift up my voice to the LORD for mercy.
…no one is concerned for me
I have no refuge;
No one cares for my life.”
Psalm 142:1,4
Monday 28 August 1989
I managed to get my dad to bring me back to school before he could do anything to me.
Do you know what it’s like when you have a sore finger? You always seem to bang or knock it? Well my operation is like that. It seems like every girl in the hostel has bumped into me. Every time I do something I get hurt again. It’s making me really mad!
We have to do a speech in English this week. I don’t know exactly what topic to choose, but I will look in the library.
I hated English speeches. I never had anything interesting to talk about and as my classmates yawned or sniggered at my talks, they always left me feeling useless and inconsequential.
One break-time, I wandered aimlessly about the library picking up books about dolphins and killer whales. I loved the photography but some of them were too technical for my limited literacy skills. I saw books on cats and dogs and other pets but I’d never had one of my own and our teacher had said it would help to choose a topic you already know something about.
I looked at history books with names like ‘Pompeii’ and ‘Hiroshima’ but had no idea how to even pronounce their titles. Plants and trees were so boring.
I offered a half-hearted sort of prayer asking God to help me find a topic. It wasn’t as if I thought he really cared what I talked about but I was lost for ideas. “What about hospitals and operations?” I thought, suddenly excited. “I could talk about appendicitis! I know about that!”
I wandered around what I thought was a medical section looking for books starting with H for hospital but saw ‘Heterosexual Reproduction of Annelids’. I could barely pronounce the three words in the title but the part that said ‘sexual’ beckoned me. Shocked that they had a book with the ‘sex’ word in the school library, I sneaked it off the shelf for a peak. It was full of pictures of earthworms!
“Yuck!” Sheepishly I replaced it and wondered if I should be looking in O for operations, or S for surgery? Of course not. I should look in A for ‘appendix’. Starting at the beginning of the A subject books I saw a title that attracted me like iron filings to a magnet. It read ‘Adolescent Sexual Abuse’. Next to it was another entitled, ‘ABUSE. Don’t let it happen in your school.’
I’d been speculating about the word ‘abuse’ since Mrs Martingale used it in her office! Now it kept jumping out at me in title after title. “Child Abuse”. “Dealing with Childhood Abuse”. “Abuse and Family Violence”. The books may as well have had flashing neon lights around them and I was the moth being drawn in – but were they going to enlighten or electrocute me?
With a great sense of dread and an even greater sense of curiosity, I took several of the books about ‘sexual abuse’ and sat at a table nearby. Feeling slightly guilty, I turned a few pages. As I skimmed, I saw chapter titles like: “What is sexual abuse?” and “Why does it happen?” I read the first few paragraphs in horror. Embarrassed, I replaced them on the shelves but when I realised no-one was watching, removed them again, added a few more to the collection and signed them out when only the librarian was at the issue desk.
Later that day I sat in my room paging through the books with trembling hands, but I wasn’t a great reader so it took me ages. Finally I found a book that was easier to understand. The author, Judith Cooney wrote:
“Sexual abuse is a topic no-one wants to think about or talk about. No one likes to think about children being forced to do sexual things… Every year in the United States at least one out of every four girls and one out of every seven boys will be sexually abused or molested before age eighteen…It is possible that as you read this book, some things may confuse you or frighten you…it is essential that you talk over your questions, concerns or reactions with someone who will take the time to listen…some people believe that not talking about something troubling will make it go away. If you encounter this attitude regarding sexual abuse, keep bringing up the subject with responsible adults until you get help.”
The book said that “eight out of ten times the abuser is not the “bogeyman” hiding in the bushes. It is instead a parent, step-parent, or grandparent….”
[1]
My heart began to pound harder and my hands became clammy. I read that sometimes the abusers tell the victims they will kill them if they tell. That’s why so many children don’t tell. I read that molesters and abusers are different. Molesters often do it only once to
a stranger, and the children usually tell because the parents are also upset and believe them.
Abusers, however, go on doing it for months or even years because most times they know the children well. The victims often feel bad and also guilty because it involves telling on someone they know well… someone they may even love.
By the time I went to bed that night, my heart was aching and my head was spinning.
Tuesday 29 August 1989
I feel sick! I was looking for a topic for my English presentation and I found books on ‘Child Abuse’. Now I’m so angry and upset. All the ugly things my father’s been doing to me are in the books. I need to tell someone this is happening to me. He hits me for nothing and he touches me and has sex with me and it is all wrong, wrong, wrong!!!! I knew it was wrong! He has been lying to me about his “special love”.
The books said sexual abuse doesn’t occur in normal families. They said a family might look normal but this isn’t normal behaviour. My father always acts like he cares but he doesn’t care about me, only himself.
Now I know why my friends like going home. Their dads are NOT doing this to them. My father is going to pay. He’s a liar and a child abuser and I am going to tell someone… I hope God makes me strong enough. My mother has also been a child abuser because she’s guilty of neglect and not loving me. And Joanne – she’s an emotional abuser and a bully.
I wonder why God gave me to a family of child abusers?
Today I despise God.
My new knowledge started a raging inferno inside me. I yelled at God from the depths of my being. How dare He leave me with child abusers? How dare He watch and not stop them? In the bath that night I accidentally cut myself as I shaved my legs. I watched the blood run into the bath water, floating, swirling and it felt good! After that I did it on purpose, just as I had with the scissors. I imagined that as the blood flowed out, so did my hurt, my dirt, my anger. I’d learnt that I was a victim! I had been abused. I was bursting with defiled, filthy blood. But this bleeding was cleansing....
Unspoken - Kiss of the Wolf Spider, Part I Page 9
