My Shame (trigger warning)

This is what looks back at me when I look in a mirror

Now it’s rare for me to actually discuss what happened to me beyond I was abused, but in context I will have to try and explain. If you think that this is something that might affect you please go to a safe site or google so as not  to trigger off awful memories for you.

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I guess this post goes back to a phone conversation I had with my mum. The topic of my abuse came up & maybe unfairly told her that I found them not believing me as destructive to me as the abuse itself.  Maybe it wasn’t fair to externalise that thought, but at some point it had to be said, as this has been a key issue to my mental health.  Needless to say it distressed mum and received a passive aggressive response about how unfair i was being, and how is she supposed to live thinking I blame her. At which point she dropped a bombshell.

Considering that I always believed she didn’t believe me, and that I was telling “little boys lies” (a phrase that still haunts me) and not unfeasible to assume this standpoint   considering she wrote me a letter apologising for that 17 years ago.  I was mortified to hear that she claimed she spoke to the family doctor about it.  And they thought it best not to put me through everything that would happen with a police investigation. I can not find the words to convey the sadness, pain and sense of betrayal by two people in this world who should have protected me. Now okay, I’ll grant it wouldn’t happen today with safeguarding children & vulnerable people and that I’m talking about 1979/80 a period where abuse was virtually unheard of, although as we know now was actually happening quite prolifically by high profile characters and needless to say non-high profile characters. I can’t quite comprehend what they must have been thinking. The support worker from Survive suggested that this may not have been so uncommon practice at that time, that health practitioners assumed  that children that young would not remember what happened and grow up without any post-traumatic symptoms.Well I guess I proved them wrong.

To this day I can remember 3 occasions I was abused (the 3rd has only recently started to surface from my repressed memories, but plays a significant memory as I will get to later. The first time it happened thankfully was over almost as quickly as it started. I didn’t realise that a decade later he didn’t ‘wee’ in my mouth. Even now there are times my own ejaculate or a sweaty groin can trigger me off to that day. Ironically the one thing I can’t remember about that day is if I actually saw his gerbils, which was the reason I ended upstairs in his room.   I remember looking in the glass tank for them, i remember him getting a porn magazine from the top draw of his chest of drawers, I remember him showing me the naked ladies in the magazine. And then I remember vividly what happened as he showed me a big boy did. When  he finished with me he told me he’d kill me if I ever told anyone. He could have got away with it if he just told me no one would believe me.

I can’t remember what led me up to his room the second occasion but the same thing happened, minus the porn mag. Before he finished with me mum called up to his room from their front garden, he held me out of the window and told me to tell mum I’d be along in a few minutes. If I didn’t he’d drop me. To this day I’m not sure what terrified me most the actual abuse or the threat he’d drop me from that window. If I knew then, what I know now I’d have called his bluff,  I’d either be dead or it would have stopped the abuse . Alas I didn’t and needless to say it didn’t.

My head and my heart tell me  that there were several more  occasions that it would happen, but I’ve only recently started to remember a third occasion.  It involved my childhood friend.  And no matter dear reader you will not convince me that it wasn’t my fault, but my friend blamed me 7 years ago and I hold myself responsible.If only I had told him to run, but no I had to share my ‘secret’ with him, in the Wendy house where he was waiting for us. I don’t remember what happened in that Wendy house but I remember him waiting in the corner with that look in his eye.  The fact my friend had been subjected to the vile acts I had endured on my own  will always eat at my soul and conscience. I have no idea what I can ever do to free myself of the guilt and shame for subjecting  someone else to his depravity. Nor can absolve myself if he subjected other victims after me when I could have made myself heard sooner.

Now, if you remember  I said the third incident I remember  held some significance and god knows If I get the chance this blog will fuck my defence up in court, but I’d love to force him back into that Wendy s I pour petrol over him and the Wendy house and watch the fear in his eyes as I pull out a box of matches from my pocket. Just for once would I like him to have some idea of the terror and fear he gave this little boy.

I explained  to mum last week that I want to come home and dispense some Justice. I was perplexed why she couldn’t see the significance of the Wendy house, it was only then did it occur to me, and resulted in my asking and finding out she had no idea that it was more than one occasion. I guess I’ve burned all my bridges for returning down south, cause i have a mother who doesn’t want me to teach that vile beast a lesson. Maybe one day other victims will come forward, maybe they won’t. Maybe I’ll get a chance to administer  some retribution, maybe I won’t.  What I do know is I can’t keep punishing myself consciously or unconsciously. I’m tired of harming myself whether cutting myself or over self-medicating myself.

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