Bear with me, regarding this - this has been a problem for me for years, let me explain.
I have been rather coy to people in the past when they ask about certain subjects – sexuality, personal relationships – or in my case, the lack of one – and people have always asked why I have been so quiet in regards of this. I came out as bisexual some months ago – much to the relief of myself, and to a lack of surprise to friends and family.
However, there is a dark secret which until now, I have been very reluctant to speak publically about because of the stigma and the shame that I have that I have allowed it to eat inside me for so long – so long after it happened, and yet it still has such a massive influence on my life and the way that I treat and perceive people on a day to day basis.
Recently, it has cost me the friendship of one of the most wonderful, trusting and reliable people I have ever had the privilege to be part of their life – purely because of the anxiety and worry that I had in my head that they were going to take me for a ride, like so many people have done in the past. It is this, as well as many other examples where I have snapped at other friends in similar circumstances. Such nonsense has to stop – however as a result of this, I feel that my truth has to come out – so people can try and understand why it is I am the way I am.
Not their fault, if anyone’s fault – it’s mine for not fully recovering psychologically from the mental scars that it has given me. Although I have written to friends about this in the past, it is the first time that I have ever really spoken about what exactly happened to me in such graphic detail. I have been told that I have to stop playing the victim, this is the first step in doing that, so whoever it was who said that, thanks.
Unfortunately for me, I was abused from the age of 10 to the age of 13, by one of my father’s best friends. The abuse involved was sexual in nature and did involve intercourse on a regular basis for those three years. I remember the first time, up above the Port of Dover near the Langdon Cliffs – the way that he hoisted me through the sunroof – gave me his binoculars to look at the ships in the dark, whilst he sucked me off. There was many examples, I remember him driving over to our house unannounced with his then wife, picked myself and my sister up – we went to Dreamland, and then whilst my sister and her wife went off, we went on the Shooting Star, which was back then a loop-the-loop ride (very rare back then), the Dodgems and the like, and then we went into a cubicle, he bent me over and fucked me up the bum for the best part of what seemed like hours but was probably no longer than 20 minutes.
Most degrading of all, at my mum and Dad’s 20th anniversary party back in 1995, when I was in the living room of my own house during the summer holidays away from boarding school, he closed the living room door, sat next to me, and groped me and jerked me off. In my own home. And people ask why I am so desperate to leave home. You have that reason now.
The worse part of it all, for me was that at first my parents didn’t believe me – though they did stop him from seeing myself or my sister, which made me think that they knew something was awry – or that perhaps he had previous. At least they stopped him from doing anything else.
The only reason why it went to court, is that I was confided by a friend at school a few years later that he himself was raped by a fellow pupil in the showers – I saw that perpetrator get punished (of sorts) – as well as ridicule from everyone else – one Monday night, I was in the shower room, in tears – when my housemaster saw me and asked what was wrong. That was when I told him everything. Over the next few weeks in the build-up to Christmas 1996, I went to the Police in Newport on the Isle of Wight (I was at school, in nearby Ventnor) and they put me into a room, with cameras which I couldn’t see – but they could. My headmaster accompanied me to the centre to the North of the town, and we spent the best part of four hours there. Torture doesn’t even describe it.
Anyway, later that day – because they needed to get some form of evidence to show some form of intercourse – the police got an doctor to examine me and to this day – I can remember the jelly impinging into my anus and the doctor opening it up and looking at it with a light – all he could say was that there was some irregularities regarding my anus.
So something had happened, someone would pay surely?
Hmmm. Nope.
The bastard originally got a lawyer who basically thought that the case was open and shut – the bastard was charged on a count of rape and a count of buggery – the court case was suppose to start on the Tuesday – I was suppose to be going and testifying to the court that Tuesday, but because of the fucking around by the defense team, I didn’t testify till the Wednesday – I was a bag of nerves and cracked up constantly during cross-examination by his lawyer – he well and truly got me properly.
He got let off by the jury on the Friday after 40 minutes of deliberations. 40 fucking minutes.
And that was suppose to have been it.
The following Sunday, Princess Diana died in that car crash in Paris – and I will always remember Dad’s first comments on reaction of the news.
“that puts everything we’ve been through into context, doesn’t it,” Lovely thought that, Dad. Thanks for cheering me. Wanker.
Within 18 months, Dad had moved out, apparently for financial reasons, but I know the real reasons why, he couldn’t look at me and say that he was there for me, when I needed him the most – he shafted me over royally, when I needed him the fucking most. The one time, in my life I needed my fucking father there and HE WAS NOT THERE FOR ME. The Wednesday that I gave my evidence, we got a lift home from the Detective Constable who was leading the case on behalf of the police. Dad didn’t come home with us, nope. He went straight to the Rugby Club for Bridge (a retro form of card game, for sadistic headfucks, just like my father). Nice to get your priorities in order. c*nt.
Now, I haven’t just written the above because I needed to get rid of some steam inside me, but because something good has to come out of my pain. I need to try and be a force for good – if this blog does any good, if it gets people talking, if it gets people to try and be educated a bit more then all the good, let me throw this thought into the mix.
Rape victims may experience many emotions such as denial, grief, anger, depression, fear, loneliness and guilt. I go through most of those feelings on almost a daily basis, it is like a vicious circle of hell. 20% of rape victims become suicidal. I became suicidal in the build-up to the court case – and on and off for the following five or six years after the court case – two instances I attempted to take my own life, once by hanging myself, from my bedroom door, and secondly and probably the closest – when I was down East Cliff and was near the edge of the cliff, when my sister caught me. I haven’t been anywhere near that point since then – however, whenever I have had a row with my family regarding my depression and anxiety or with a friend because I think that they are screwing me over, when in fact they are not – that is when I head into shutdown – and it is quite literally a shutdown of the brain, almost auto-pilot. I always avoid situations when I could bump into the person, not because I don’t want to see them (as much as they don’t want to hear from me) but just in pure shame that I have treated them so badly – so everything is planned ahead so I don’t need to risk seeing anyone.
Yep, even now after all these years – that bastard still has an effect on me. The effects of child sexual abuse include depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, anxiety, propensity to further victimization in adulthood, and physical injury to the child, among other problems. I was bullied a lot during my childhood due to my speech and language problems, which was why I went to boarding school for so long – and still to this day the bullying from some people near where I live continues to happen.
Although I have never been diagnosed with PTSD, I have constantly suffered from the symptoms of PTSD ever since the court case – the constant flashbacks and nightmares, the frustration of years wasted of my life and the anger directed at my family and friends which in itself angers me and makes me angry at myself for getting myself into the position that I am in.
I am going to a specialist counsellor down in New Romney on Tuesday who deals with such people who have dealt with such abuse – that should interesting. Hopefully, I’ll get something out of it.
