About Me - Detailed Survivor Story. HIGH Trigger Warning.
I was born in 1970 in England. My father was the son of a famous guy who was a pedophile thug. My mother was the product of a “relationship” between a European plantation owner in the Americas and a local black girl, and was brought up by a tutor. My father was a police officer and met my mother when she came to the UK.
??1972-1973 (Brand new recall Jan 2019)
This is sketchy and at the limits of my memory. It is the start.
Everything is huge. Doorjambs tower above me. Beds are difficult to climb onto. I loved sitting on my parent’s laps. Being held. Being hugged. Everything feels nice and bright. Then one time I am lifted up and put face down on a bed. Then a huge force, a pressure, goes through my entire being. It smashes me. The left side of my face has a hand on it. Then it is over. I lay there, sad. I don’t understand what happened or why.
Sometime in 1973 - 1974
My earliest memories are of London. I like to think I can sense some ‘good times’ but I cannot, at least consciously, remember them. Three was always something wrong. I could not figure out what it was at the time. There were gaps when my father would send me away from myself. Like a discontinuity in time. He could just make me switch off. For a while. I knew something bad was happening but I had no idea what because I could not witness it. I was always switched off.
One night I was in my room and well – he spilt something and I felt something cold and wet between my legs. I looked to my right and he left the room very suddenly. I had no idea what that meant. And the first time I even remembered the above paragraph was in 1992.
The next item has the strongest evidence. Across my back there are a network of (now faint, after 40 years) scars. Like a subway map. During my childhood my back always itched fiercely and even now I sometimes get a sensation of hot pins and needles all over my back. I now recall what happened. When the abuse was happening, my father would go away for some weeks for work. My sister was on the way / newly born and my mother was helped by her stepmother. With my father gone I felt safe to explain to them the wet-on-the-leg incident. I have flashes of recall. Basically, I was stood in front of the dining room table and whipped with a belt or strap because I was evil / said lies / evil things. That is what did me the most damage. At that point I realized there was no way out and the only way I could get through it was to turn inwards and wait it out.
When the whipping started on one occasion I must have known what was coming. I put my arms behind my back with my palms facing out to protect myself. One blow landed across my biceps just above the inner elbow leaving scars. The one on my right arm is more pronounced – my mother was right handed.
I was kept in one of the main bedrooms for a few days after that. I do vaguely remember being at the foot of my parent’s bed looking at myself being smothered by my mother. That was really weird. That was when the core of survivorship became real for me. There was no expectation I would make it through this alive. It was a fight for life.
The scars continue to fade.
There was a balance of power between my mother and father which meant I was dogmeat. Each had abused in different ways, so neither could rat out the other. I could even remember them mocking each other about their behavior. I recall overhearing a conversation between them debating what was being done to me. My father shouted “Well what about what you did then?”
After this for a couple of years was the “icky” period. I cannot remember significant full-on violence from this period although there were lots of spankings and chastisements for insignificant things. We moved to Essex and in the new house my parents took a bedroom each. I remember sleeping with my mother for an extended period. The thing that stands out was the smell and … well icky. I have one flash of a memory (newly recovered Sept 2018) of her swatting me away when I had not been able to touch her in a way she liked. I had gotten frightened and stopped for some reason, and she did not like that.
Then I switched to spending most time in my dad’s bed for some reason. Icky again but different smells. Memories are scant. If there was abuse I either absented myself or the memory is still buried.
I also had my own bedroom at the back of the house. For some reason I took to using the wall by the radiator as a toilet to avoid having to go out to the bathroom if I needed to pee. This went on for months and months before my mother asked what the stains were. When I explained, she did not seem too upset. During this period the whole house got very dirty. I remember sitting on the carpet in the living room and it being caked in dirt, salt and asphalt grains from the outside. Rooms were left undecorated for a very long time. We did not have visitors so it did not matter.
Twinkletoes. My father would use that name as an insult and when he used it I knew I was about to have a bad day. I just now (2018) researched the name. It is from a 1920s book and silent film about a pedo relationship, similar to Lolita. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Twinkletoes Wow. That is now my father saw me.
I remember when I was 5 or 6 sitting at a table with both my parents to my right across a corner. They were smoking. My father grinned at me and put the cigarette on the back of my right hand. I pulled it away quickly before the burn could get serious. My mother giggled. It left no scar. There used to be 3 cigarette burns in the shape of a triangle on the inside of my right elbow. One has now faded, two can still just be seen.
There are other strange incidents that I remember which were rather strange behaviors I did to myself or things that happened to me that I could not explain. When I was around 5 I went into the bathroom and started playing with my father’s razor blades. I remember taking them out (they were the old-fashioned types that came in paper), but I do not remember playing with them. I do remember then looking at my hands and they were a mass of blood, as was the sink. I do not remember cutting myself. One day I got hold of a piece of string and started rubbing it across my mouth, like a horse’s bridle. It actually felt nice as it burnt. The sides of my mouth were a mess afterwards, a crows-foot of burns extending across both cheeks, for weeks.
1977 or so
Something went wrong and the violence returned with one major incident. I do remember my father forcing his penis into my mouth very violently. I became very frightened of being sick and of any foodstuff that was white, creamy, slimy. I did not eat mashed potatoes, butter, cream, cottage cheese, custard or anything similar until I was a teenager.
Around the same time I became ill. The funny thing is that I vomited dark pink stuff throughout the day for three days afterwards. Pink grainy stuff. I can see now that can only have been congealed blood. At the time the doctor said it was the mumps. I never had lumps in my neck that I can remember, although it would make sense that my throat was swollen. 2018 - I just checked the cdc website – mumps does not make you vomit.
Thereafter all sexual contact stopped. All emotional events after that consisted of low-grade violence and punishment.
1978 or so
Around the age of 8 I was admitted to the local to have a circumcision performed. I was in hospital for around three days due to infection. When discharged, I remained at home wearing nothing but a gown for a few weeks. The discomfort was excruciating.
I do not recall ever suffering from any condition that would have necessitated this procedure. My parents also did not practice any faith or culture that required circumcision.
My mother was a state registered nurse in the hospital and, as such, was in a position of seniority on the wards including the ward where I was kept. I recall lying on my front during a preparatory health-check and questions being asked about something I could not see (now I know to have been my scars). My mother brushed the questions aside.
I believe that due to being an in-patient my medical record pouch would have been transferred temporarily from the local doctors surgery to the hospital, where my mother would have access to those records. Given the lack of any action taken during my childhood regarding the scars, I think that there is at least the possibility that my mother removed any incriminating materials from the pouch (or planted false explanations).
Given I suffered from no discomfort prior to this procedure, I therefore infer that the whole surgery may have been a ruse to enable my parents to eliminate evidence of abuse from my pouch.
1978 or 1979
Fear of a non-consensual touch from my father was constant. I remember a lot of violent tickling. One day I was walking with him in a public park. I needed use the toilet so ran into a stall in a public convenience. The lick on the door was broken. I had just sat down when a stranger – a dirty old man with a gray raincoat, forced his way in and grabbed me. Knowing exactly what was coming I lashed out and pushed my way past him. My father was waiting for me outside. I stayed silent. Later I unwisely mentioned the incident to my parents and I recall lying on the ground in terror with my legs apart, with my father mocking me.
I had to do my best to survive and get away so I went into shutdown. The first thing was to delete all signs of weakness. I would cry frequently up to the age of around 10 when I was punished for something. Then I managed to stop. I had found that I could use other bodily behaviors, like shivering, as a replacement for showing emotion. Eventually that ceased to be necessary too. Later at boarding school, I cried when I was aged 12 when threatened with a detention for some reason.I have never cried since. 1982-2018. 36 years. The problem is, once lava turns to rock, it stays rock.
When I was 8 or 9 I went through a long period of being terrified of all food because it might poison me and make me vomit. So I stopped eating for weeks. My weight fell by a large amount. The only thing I could eat was a little bit of ice cream at first, or a bit of apple or orange. At the same time, I started always having a drink of water with me because I thought it would help me not vomit. So I put a glass of water by my bed, That became 2,3,4,5,6,7 cups in time. Eventually my parents found out and I took to hiding a little water in a small container that I could hide in the bed. After many weeks I managed to stop. One day I was told if I did not start eating, I would not be able to go to see my grandma. Then I got my appetite back, and I started to regain weight.
I remember my grandma confronting my father on one occasion and asking (in front of me) ‘have you been messing with him’. My father said no. She retorted “why has all the love gone out of him then”?
With my emotions locked down, I started to build physical distance. I worked out how to lock my bedroom. Around aged 10 my parents started to invest in me academically to go to boarding school. I studied hard and eventually won a scholarship. It was actually a master stroke for all concerned – I was out of the house before hitting puberty and risking any recall. I started there in 1982 when I was 11. I was a boarder. It was a strange and brutal place, but I was quickly happier there. There were staff members in the junior school (11-13) who clearly like to play with the boys. It was low-grade pedo stuff – excessive tickling and sticky pants but nothing too heinous. I do not think I was that attractive to them. I remember one. He loved to tickle the boys. I liked to be tickled – it was the nicest thing in the world to get attention. This was odd because when my father tickled me they were violent affairs.
Irony was everything. Because of the scars on my back the other kids would mock me as the ‘child abuse victim’. I had no recall then so I thought it was cool / hilarious, like a bit of murder/mystery.
The senior school boarding house had no pedo staff, but the buys could be brutal to each other. (recall Sept 2018) In my first year there a boy who was a year older than me, and I was scared of, I watched bring raped by a group of boys who were more senior again.
The next bit I have no direct memory of happening, so this is an assemblage of evidence. In the 5th year I was sharing a 2-bed study-bedroom with a kid called A. A was the first to discover it was possible to rape me in my sleep and get away with it. He even boasted to me one day "I fucked you last night". I ignored it. He was also not great at self cleanliness ...ugh. He stank of poop. Probably my poop. So, half way through the second term the room next to us became vacant and he moved into that. Within a week, these other boys started visiting saying they needed the bed to sleep.
There was a dormitory full of boys who were a year below me, three of them, in particular, I was good friends with. They were lifers, having boarded since aged 7. I could never work out why they would look me in the eye with a huge smirk that now as an adult I recognize as sexual. One day one of them, W, had asked to use the spare bed in my room to sleep because the dormitory was noisy. So, after lights out he would come around, use the spare bed to sleep. A little later I half-woke to hear the words “It is OK – go back to sleep” spoken kindly. I went back to sleep. I woke again later groggily and feeling bruised as he left, saying, he was OK to go to the dormitory now. I thought nothing of it. The same thing happened the next day, and the next. The following day, there was a knock and it was a different boy. Then, the day after that, a different one again. They had some kind of rota. I think A told them what he had done and organized that rota. Always the same pattern. Claim to be tired, I would let them use the bed, then I would wake feeling beat up just as they left a few hours later. And always the huge grins as they looked straight at me. They could be looking across a yard, classroom or be buck naked in the communal showers, and the stare and smile was the same. One of the housemasters started to make strange comments that I was fucking the boys after hours. I said I did not know what he was talking about. Then he looked at me a couple of days later and said “you really have no idea, do you?” I said “no, of what?” Then he eventually said “They fuck you in your sleep”. That comment made no sense to me at the time, either the verb or the use of the plural. He even confronted W in his dormitory when I was in earshot and said “That’s rape”. I did not connect it to me. Then one afternoon I was in the dormitory with these kids horsing around and one of them, not one who had ever come to my room, decided he wanted to try and penetrate me. Right there in front of the others. The first I knew of it was feeling pressure behind. I said “No, No” and he said in a way that was genuinely confused “What is the problem, I thought you liked this?” The ‘original’ kid, W, I think had a bit of a crisis about it; on a few occasions he glanced at me and then started crying (very rare for a lifer). I took him to one side and asked what was up. He just looked ahead and stayed silent.
From this point forward for around 10 years I had pain and bleeding from my butt. It was later diagnosed as a ‘fistula’ – a tear that is very difficult to heal.
The best bit of all about being at boarding school was the sheer separation from home. It was 2 hours journey away. I only had to go home once every 12 weeks or so. I did paper rounds and other jobs and started to save money. I got top grades. And all the time I became tougher. The bullies quit bullying me because they could get no reaction from me. Fewer boys were older than me, and more were younger. The power balance shifted. I am proud to say, I never misused that power as it accrued to me.
I eventually became a troublemaker when a teacher got fired for something mundane and I was expelled when I was 17. The school made an unspecified threat to my father to never attempt recourse back to the school.
I went north and enrolled in a school to complete my high-school studies. This was a fiercely independent time for me and nothing of note happened.
1990 - 1994
I was at university in my second year (I think). I was really puzzled by something. I could not understand for the life of me why I felt so bad. Like a clamp was squeezing my head. I could tell that something was breaking but I did not know what. I had eaten some pizza some weeks before that my dorm mates had spiked with some cannabis, and when I was high on the stuff I detected that there was something in my subconscious. That was when I realized that my consciousness had somehow frozen. That stuff that should have been able to move was locked in place. Anyway, I was walking back to the halls of residence. And then I made a connection. I could not understand why it was that my grandfather, had been described to me by my grandma as someone who had ‘abused my father’ (her words). And that was when I started to remember stuff. The extend of my recall then was of my fathers abuse and a faith (no memory) that the scars on my back had been put there by my mother.
This recall had a bad effect. I was suicidal for a couple of days and I went to an institution for 3 days to stabilize.
I concluded that the life I had lived too date was too toxic and dangerous to be continued, and it had to be destroyed and replaced it with something new. I changed my name, disowned all blood relatives. Cut off the old life and pushed it over the side of the dock. Then I never looked back. The new me was very successful in everything. I let all trace of the former me disappear. A ‘borrowed ladder’, as in the film Gattaca. It was outstandingly successful. New life, untraceable to the old. My old name exists nowhere. Cannot be found on the Internet. In fact virtually all trace of the family has now been obliterated. I am in a new country – the United States. Nobody who know me as a child or in my teens knows me now.
The problem is it has turned out to also be a huge act of self-mutilation. Legs metaphorically were cancerous – so I cut them off. Only now realizing half of me is missing and, good news, the cancer is dead so maybe I can retrieve some bones and muscle.
Just for curiosity’s sake I did a search for my father’s name in a local paper in the UK and found he had died in 2017. A further search showed my mother died in 2015.
They are both dead. The fire is out. The darkness lifts. It is a sense of peace. I can now travel to the UK as I would any other country. I can start to sift through the waste.
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