So there I was, a complete mess; emotionally, physically and mentally shot. The relationship I was in with my then girlfriend (now my wife) was falling apart.
But, it’s the littlest things at the most unexpected times that can often start the change. In my case, it was a puppy called Milly.
I was living in a squat on my own, I could come and go as I pleased, get as high, drunk or out of my head as I wanted and it didn’t matter to anyone else. But, as soon as I had Milly it all changed, something outside of me needed me, was reliant on me, depended on me and I couldn’t let her down.
Milly was a rescue pup, if I didn’t take her, I was told she would have been “taken care of” whatever that meant. She was a nervous wreck, the runt of the litter and the last of the pups to be homed and was living in a broom cupboard. If you raised your voice she would hide under the table or behind a chair. From the moment I took her we were nearly always together for the next 14 years.
I couldn’t kick the drink, drugs or destructive lifestyle for myself, but I needed to do it for her. I simply couldn’t neglect her. I wasn’t the perfect owner by any means and made mistakes and let her down at the beginning, but she just kept loving me and slowly over time, I kicked the drugs and then the alcohol.
Even though things had improved, I was still battling the mental illness and depression. I knew, despite how the professionals had treated me the root cause of the issues was the abuse. One evening the BBC transmitted a programme on abuse and there was a helpline you could call after the show. The next day when everyone was out, I picked up the phone and got through to a woman who ran a group in North London. I spoke for about 3 minutes and she spoke for about 40 about her abuse. I was perfect for her group she told me. I never went.
I was now driven to overcome the abuse, I went into Foyles bookshop and bought the book “Victims No Longer”, read it from cover to cover and then reread it. It seemed I was finally on the right track and that book was a significant milestone in helping me in my recovery. I kept it by my bedside and was constantly dipping in and out of it.
I tried to talk to my mother and girlfriend about the abuse, but they said it was upsetting me and that I should stop. If a TV programme came on that had abuse in it my girlfriend would turn it over. I was becoming increasingly frustrated with their efforts to protect me from the pain. I needed to feel it, I needed to express it. I knew they meant well and were thinking of me, but it wasn’t helping.
One of the tactics used by my abuser was making me feel responsible for protecting my family, “they wouldn’t understand our special love” he had told me, “you would only upset them if you told them, so you must kept it secret”. So from the age of 8 I had been groomed and given the burden of protecting others by carrying the responsibility of keeping quiet about the experience.
Again, the abuser was being proven right; if I dared mention the abuse those around me were getting upset, so once more I put the lid on. This time the lid just would not stay in place, I had opened the box and it was staying off. Again, I looked for help, but this time with dramatic effect.
Those who have experienced serious childhood trauma such as physical, emotional or sexual abuse may have twice the rate of cancer, heart disease and chronic bronchitis than those who have not had such trauma.Dr Ron Acierno, Behavioural Medicine, 1997: 23 (2) pp53-64
Self Harm ~
79% of people who self-harmed had histories of childhood trauma.Van der Kolk et al. 1991 & Robert Anda, “Adverse Childhood Experiences”, American Journal of Preventative Medicine, 1998: 14 pp245-258
Adults who experienced childhood abuse are 12 times more likely to attempt suicide than those who did not.Vincent Fellitti
People often ask me “Didn’t your Mum and Dad know about the truancy or the drinking or drug taking?” One skill that abuse gives you is the ability to keep secrets and hide feelings; I had hidden sexual abuse from 8 years of age, hiding the drinking, drugs, truancy and mental illness was a doddle. I had even learnt how to forge letters; no one had ever picked up on the forged letters and signatures to and from school!
The drinking had begun in my mid-teens during the truancy and I had some good times; I think I must have been among the top tipsy visitors to the free museums in London and regularly visited the British, Geffrye and London. I would spend hours walking around central London and if I had chosen a career as a Black Taxi Cab Driver I would have had a head start with “The Knowledge!”
In my previous update, I told how I had tried to get help from the NHS and had been totally let down, now I sought help from another source.
My family had always been Church goers, in fact my brother, who I’m very proud of and close to, is a Minister and Team Leader in the Midlands. Surely, I thought I would get some resolution and understanding of the abuse through the church. I had myself been going regularly for several years and had a period of relative stability, I had even managed to get to college and clawed some “O” levels together. Before long, the “old demons” began playing their mind games again. This time I would seek help from the Church rather than the health service, I expected more empathy and understanding than previously experienced.
With a huge amount of fear I disclosed my abuse to a senior Minister, his angry response…”You’re making too much of it, you need to pull your socks up!”….almost word for word the same as the GP. My second attempt to a female minister, rare at that time, and her officious response; “I think you’re making excuses for your behaviour and making far too much of it”.
Again, my abusers words came back to me, “…no one will believe you, you’re making too much of it” and once again, he had been proven correct. Well, if he had abused me because I was too nice and what he had said before was true it was time to change. So I thought, out with the nice guy and trying to seek help, instead I became the archetypal angry young man; resentful, fearful and looked for refuge in drinking and drug taking.
It was shortly after this that my father was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer.
Up until the abuse I had been my father’s shadow and had been inseparable from him. One of the worst results of the abuse for me was the irreversible damage it did to my relationship with my father. It began with my utter shock and disbelief that neither my father nor mother could see what was happening and come to my rescue. Surely they were my protectors and should have known and be able to see what was happening week in, week out, when I was sent to stay with the the abuser each weekend. The second result, and perhaps worst, was when I first disclosed to my family.
One evening I crept into my older brothers bedroom and told him I had a secret and that he couldn’t tell anyone. As soon as I had finished telling him what was happening, he said he had to tell, he did exactly what I had prayed and hoped for. We went to my mother, who said we needed to tell my father. We were a traditional family and dad was the head of our household.
I was a nervous wreck, shaking and quivering, I told my dad what had happened. “Are you sure?” he asked, “You must be mistaken, ***** wouldn’t possibly do something like that”. My world collapsed, never before or since, even during the very worst of the abuse, had I felt so alone and abandoned. At that one moment my relationship with my father was changed forever and we would only really bridge that gulf on his deathbed…but, even so, I am so thankful we did.
It would take me years of therapy and also becoming a father myself to understand why my dad had responded the way he did. The abuser, had not just sexually abused me, he had abused my father’s trust, my mother and father, my family and all those who placed faith in him. I can now understand and appreciate that the last thing you want to believe and hear is that your child has been sexually abused. You would prefer to think the child had simply made a mistake, you would prefer to believe the trust you had placed in another person to take care of your child had not been cruelly abused and your own judgement of a person who claimed to be a dear friend was correctly placed.
Now the drinking and drug taking became out of control and by my early twenties I was both an alcoholic and drug addict caught up in a vicious spiral of uppers and downers. I would take speed to get me up in the morning and to the pub. The added bonus of speed meant I could drink even more – the down side, I couldn’t sleep and so needed to take other drugs to sedate me. This cycle went on and on for several years damaging both my mental and physical health. I became more paranoid, aggressive and had dramatic mood swings, I developed major kidney pain, heart palpitations and lost a huge amount of weight.
I went to the doctor who sent me for an ECG and echo-graph of my heart, the nurse asked me if I was an athlete as I had an enlarged heart muscle which was usually found in high performance athletes. In fact it was a result of taking the speed for so long and putting so much strain on my heart.
The self-harming that had begun during the actual abuse escalated dramatically during my teens. It had begun with head and face butting walls, I now punched walls and objects and broke a knuckle. At that time I also cut myself and to this day I do not sun bathe, I avoid swimming and taking my shirt off in public due to the scars I have on my stomach. I began to put myself into more and more potentially dangerous situations in attempts to self-destruct.
My drinking and drug taking was out of control and I was on a course of destruction that was clearly the result of the abuse, I had sought help numerous times and been either refused, ridiculed or dismissed as self-indulgent or attention seeking. I did not know where to turn or what to do, I had finally resigned myself to living with the guilt, the shame and self-loathing that was my life.