The courage and bravery of these women still astounds me and I’ll never be able to thank them enough. For the first time in my life, I was surrounded by people who understood what I had been through; the shame and the guilt that had been weighing down on me since I was six years old. I’ve been asked countless times why I feel guilty and ashamed when I was just an innocent child and Da was clearly the one in the wrong. But unless you’ve been in the situation, then you can’t possibly understand. And even if you have been there then, like me, you probably still won’t fully understand it and will spend all your life trying to come to terms with it in your head.
Chapter Twelve
When I told my brothers that I was going to the guards, Mark offered to speak to them first, as a sort of icebreaker. He spoke to Detective Peter Cooney in Blanchardstown Garda Station and it was arranged that two female gardaí would talk to me. Before I knew what had hit me, I made a statement. The ball was rolling and there was nothing to do now but follow it all the way to its final resting point.
As a teenager, I hated the gardaí. They were the enemy— out to spoil our fun. Then again most figures of authority are a teenager’s mortal enemy. But I found the gardaí from Blanchardstown fantastic to deal with all these years later. They handled my situation very delicately, even calling to my house to take my statements because they knew I’d be more comfortable there. I really felt like I could talk to the two female gardaí. It was like I had their trust from the very start. They were on my side. I spent hours and hours talking to them and telling them the gruesome details of the abuse that I’d never spoken aloud to anyone else before— not even my counsellor. The words didn’t come out easily; every single one was a struggle. For example, I’d refer to ‘down there’, and one of the gardaí would interrupt and ask, ‘Is that your vagina you’re referring to?’ I’d just nod in reply. But the more I got to know these women, the more comfortable I felt revealing these details to them.
The statements went on for months until eventually, after I’d dissected every last memory from my childhood, the gardaí gave me back my finished statement to read over and make sure it was correct. Reading my statement was like reading about someone else’s life. Had these things really happened to me? I felt sorry for the little girl in the statement. I wanted to gather her up in my arms and take her home with me so that I could mind her. I think that was when it hit me—the little girl in the statement was me. My da hadn’t hurt Audrey Jude the adult, he had hurt Audrey Jude the child. And nobody was going to take Audrey the adult home and protect her. So I decided that I was going to have to start taking care of myself.
I thought once the statements had been given that Da would be arrested almost straight away and the court case would get underway. But it wasn’t that straightforward. The statements were just the beginning of a process that would take several years.
Countless files were sent to the Director of Public Prosecutions and after each file a whole series of new questions arose and new evidence was unearthed. It was never-ending. But I had faith that in the end we’d get justice. I even found myself praying that nothing would happen to my da in the meantime. It would just leave me and all the other girls hanging in mid-air; my sanity depended on getting justice and acknowledgement for what had happened to us.
So I waited and waited.
I contacted Detective Cooney as regularly as I could. He was in charge of dealing with the mountain of paperwork and all the interviews for our case. In the beginning, I wouldn’t talk to him about the case at all as he was a man and the details were just too intimate. But as time passed I started to trust him a great deal. He kept me informed on any development in the case—however small. But there could be months at a time when I wouldn’t hear from him and I’d be climbing the walls in frustration. I just wanted— needed—to know that something was happening. But it was such a slow process. Detective Cooney was as frustrated as I was that it was taking so long. Like me, no garda officer likes to think of a child abuser living in a housing estate where none of the neighbouring families have any idea of the threat they pose. During this time, he moved to Cabra Garda Station (which happened to be the only other police station I’d gotten in trouble with when I was a teenager) but he continued to be my investigating officer and lifeline on the case.
While I was waiting for the case to come to court, I had plenty of other things on my plate to keep me occupied. Since the age of three, my son Tyrone had been behaving a little oddly, blinking his eyes uncontrollably and slapping himself every so often. He had also developed obsessive ritualistic behaviour. If the colour yellow wasn’t featured somewhere on his clothes, he would refuse to leave the house. I’d have to get a yellow marker and draw a little dot on one of his socks to calm him down. Once we left the house, every few steps he took, he would jump into the air. When he spoke, he made occasional barking sounds or broke into high-pitched screeches. So I took him to doctor after doctor to try and find out what was wrong with him. Eventually a child psychiatrist diagnosed him with Tourettes Syndrome, accompanied by Obsessive Compulsive Behaviour. Attention Deficit Disorder was also later added to his diagnosis. Tyrone was never bold or hyperactive; he just had a short attention span.
I’d never heard of Tourettes Syndrome so when he was first diagnosed I was convinced that it was all my fault and that I had somehow transferred all my problems on to my poor baby. But I read up on the condition and found out that it’s a gene defect that is mainly carried by males.
Tourettes Syndrome has gotten a fair bit of coverage in the media but the focus seems to be mainly on sufferers who blurt out bad language. This happens only with a small percentage of people. Although Tyrone blurts out words uncontrollably, they are never vulgar. Every so often he will have a good few weeks where the syndrome doesn’t affect him too badly but then the next few weeks can be a nightmare. He seems to get worse at night-time. His body twitches a lot and keeps him awake. I have spent nights lying beside him, pinning his body down, while he cries out.
‘Mammy, hold my body down. I’m so tired but it won’t stop.’
My heart goes out to him.
I’ve found that the best way of dealing with it is to just do the best I can and even have a sense of humour about it if possible. I remember one time we were in a playground and Tyrone was walking about the place, with about eight little ones in a line behind him, copying his every move. He would take a few steps forward, stop, slap his thighs and jump in the air, genuflect and then start the pattern from scratch. The kids thought this was great fun. I find it’s adults who lack patience and understanding.
So in the lead-up to the case I had my babies to mind and my finances to straighten out. I was so broke that I decided to speak to the Money Advice Bureau. They couldn’t give me any financial assistance but they did talk to my bank and my mortgage company for me. They also contacted the Society of St Vincent de Paul and arranged for someone to come out and have a chat with me. They were very friendly but it still felt like an interview and I found the whole experience humiliating. I could remember donating tins of food to the St Vincent de Paul collections in the past and now here I was at the receiving end. As embarrassed as I was though, I was still extremely grateful. They gave me food vouchers for Tesco that I could use once a week, and at Christmas they gave me money to buy toys for the kids as well as a big hamper of food. They never made me feel like I was begging but rather that this was just a rough patch and that they were my training wheels until I could support myself again.
In part to help my finances, I sold the house in Celbridge and moved to Virginia in County Cavan with my two children. I found a lovely three-bedroom house. The garden was smaller than Celbridge, but the rest of the house was just as big so I didn’t feel like I had down-graded. In fact, for the first time ever I had three toilets, which was a novelty.
I picked this town because it was affordable, plus it seemed lovely with a lake, and the school was only at the top of our estate. I didn’t know anyone
there so it was a huge move for me and the two kids on our own. But financially I had no choice and we needed a fresh start. We moved in September just in time for the kids to start school. My daughter Robin was starting in junior infants and my son Tyrone in second class.
I brought the kids to school and was left on my own for a couple of hours every day. I had already registered myself with the doctors in Virginia, mortified with the big bulky records they would be receiving from my old doctor. But the new doctor was very nice and continued to help me and I got the prescriptions I needed to survive.
I suddenly had a lot of time to think and I realised I had not seen pictures of me as a child during my adulthood. This struck me and opened a curiosity and yearning in me. I found the courage and wrote to my Ma asking her for pictures of me from my childhood. I hadn’t spoken to her in years but I was delighted when she wrote back and sent me some photos.
The pictures showed me as a little girl, and brought back lots of memories, unsettling memories. In the picture, I could see this little girl looking back at me and I knew her. It was me; behind the smile I was hurt, in pain and innocent. It was a very emotional moment and I was glad I was on my own. I cried bitterly for the little girl in the photo. She had done nothing to deserve what had happened to her. It made me more determined to get justice for this little girl. Up until this point, I had only ever seen myself as an adult, and I could only see Da abusing me as an adult. When I looked in the mirror, it was the adult that I saw. This was not the person he abused. It was a little innocent child who was lost inside me, somewhere hiding. She was looking out through adult eyes from inside my brain. But she was still there; I could feel her and her pain. I could hear her calling out to me for help. She needed me to carry on and I was going to do my best to save her. Now that I was an adult I could do that for her and no one was going to get in my way. She needed peace; to lie down and have a long deserved sleep, safely and loved in my memories. She was so tired.
*
In the midst of all this drama, the only thing keeping me sane was my social nights out. I was back socialising and, yes, I was back using drugs every now and again. I hadn’t taken any during either pregnancy or when the kids were small and I never brought any into the house. But it was something that I needed to do for myself every so often just to take the edge off things. So my nights out consisted of a few drinks and a few lines of coke. Cocaine made me feel alive again. It was like having adrenalin injected into sleepy joints. It also kept me happy. If I’d been relying on the drink alone, I’d probably have spent most nights stooped over my pint, tears running down my cheeks and into the glass. Cocaine was expensive but luckily I never had to buy it myself. It was usually passed around if you were sitting in a group. I didn’t see myself as having a problem. It was purely a social thing and if it helped me to function then I reasoned that it was medicinal.
*
My emotional state was fragile so when Detective Cooney finally rang me and told me he’d arrested Da and taken him in for questioning at around 7am that morning, I thought I might tip over the edge.
Da initially confessed to being an abuser in the interview room, but then got annoyed.
‘I’m disgusted that you’re making such a fuss over something that happened so long ago. It’s ridiculous that you’re putting me through this,’ he is said to have complained.
He still couldn’t see how terrible his crime was. He showed absolutely no remorse. He was more concerned about how this would affect his life. So much for the counselling he got. Wasn’t it supposed to make him understand the effects his abuse had had on people?
I knew things would probably get worse before they got better but at that time I felt like I was close to rock bottom. I was taking antidepressants and sleeping tablets just to stay afloat. The sleeping tablets were a better substitute for alcohol in helping me get to sleep but before long I was completely addicted to them. If I tried to go a night without them, I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep.
Going to the gardaí had been like opening Pandora’s Box ’cause my nightmares had become more frequent and vivid. It was like every last demon from my past had been unleashed. The nightmares were different to the ones in the past but the exact same fear lay at the root of them all. I would find myself outside my house looking in my front window where I’d see Da sitting with Robin perched on his knees. He’d be smirking at me. I’d open my mouth to scream as loud as I could but nothing would come out. I’d try banging on the window but no one could hear me. Da had my daughter and I was helpless. In another nightmare, I was at some sort of a children’s day out and I could see my da in the distance holding hands with two little girls as they skipped away from the rest of the people. I went running up to the parents to warn them about my da but no one would believe me. I screamed at them but they would just brush me away like a fly.
It got to the stage where I was scared to go to sleep at night. Scared of re-entering a world where Da had all the power. My body would fight against the clock, refusing to surrender. In the end, the tablets were the only way of knocking myself out and getting a few hours sleep. But I often wondered if it was worth it. I always woke up more tired than I’d been before going to sleep; probably because I’d spent the whole night tossing and turning and trying to outrun my da.
To cope with the sleepless nights and subsequent horrific nightmares, not to mention my son’s sleeping problems, I went back to the doctor and got stronger sleeping pills, as well as maximum strength anxiety tablets, which I took alongside the sleeping tablets at night. I just wanted to conk out and stop my brain from hurting at night. My doctor was very supportive and could see I was on the edge. She arranged for me to see a psychiatrist, who gave me a few sessions, increased my antidepressants and referred me to a psychologist.
These sessions were a real boost for me. The psychologist did IQ tests and I scored very high, in the top percentage. Any little sign of nice feedback was always welcome to me. It also made me sad, though, that I didn’t study and go to college. I obviously had the capability.
He did various other tests and told me I was pretty sane except for the problems I had suffered as a child. At this point I had not associated any of my phobias or emotional distresses with my past. This was just the beginning of my coming to terms with the effect the abuse had on me.
Chapter Thirteen
Eventually I accepted that I needed professional counselling to work through my nightmares, and to give me the strength to deal with pressing charges against Da. The psychologist referred me to the Rian group in Cavan and I found that I enjoyed going there. My counsellor talked to me in a different way than others and had a great way of looking at things from a new angle.
I was still addicted to sleeping tablets, antidepressants and anti-anxiety tablets but I was feeling full of hope and brighter. I had, like anyone, both ups and downs.
Seeing this counsellor was a turning point in my life. She concentrated on the positive things I had achieved, and helped me see for the first time how much I had done on my own. This made me feel good. She explained to me how my phobias and rituals were coping skills and survival skills. I had nothing to be ashamed of. She gave me strength and slowly but surely I began to see myself as a different person: a good person; a gentle person.
Although I was still taking cocaine, it was not on a regular basis—less than once a month. I kept this away from the house and children and never took it around people who didn’t use it. I never introduced it to anyone ’cause I knew it was a fool’s way of having a good time. These are not excuses; I am just telling you how it was.
But my tiredness was getting worse. I hadn’t felt well for a while and my back was very sore. I put everything down to stress until one day a friend suspected something was wrong with me and called to my house. When there was no answer, she let herself in and found me almost convulsing, with a dangerously high temperature. The bed was soaking with sweat.
It turned out that I had serious kidney problem
s, and I needed an operation. I spent several weeks in hospital and got out just before Christmas. It was a terrible time and I was so lonely for my children. Because I couldn’t be with them, I started developing terrible fears that something might happen to them, and that Da might try to contact them. My friends were taking care of the children while I was ill, however, and they knew the situation and understood how I felt. They reassured me that no one would get near them without my authorisation, and once I knew they were safe I was able to concentrate on getting better.
As I lay waiting on the operation table, it suddenly struck me: ‘I am really sick.’ This was no spoof, and I wasn’t pretending. I genuinely deserved to be there and get the nursing I needed. It was a good feeling; that I wasn’t lying or deceiving. I didn’t have to make up pains and try to convince them. They could see from my test results and x-rays what was wrong with me. It was a weird feeling after being in and out of hospital as a child, to actually be really sick.
I couldn’t drive till March that year with the pain, but as soon as I could I got straight back into counselling. I had become more withdrawn during my illness and was quite self-absorbed. So much was happening with my health and finances and I was constantly waiting to hear when the court case would be.
I was riddled with guilt and anguish over Da. I worried about whether he had access to children. I expressed this opinion to the social workers over and over. Nothing else mattered; no one else mattered. Other people could do what they wanted in their lives. I had this heavy load to carry and couldn’t see past it.
*
All My Fault: The True Story of a Sadistic Father and a Little Girl Left Destroyed Page 12
