How do you open up to the world about your abuse? Something that is so personal to you; something you have had to battle with all these years, and now you are ready to speak out?
I remember the day after the court case, I was trawling through the local news to see if he had been mentioned. I could not bear the thought of people seeing his name and asking questions. I just wanted it all to go away; to try and move on with my life.
I could not find anything. I was relieved, yet so angry at the same time. Although I wanted people to see what a monster he was, I did not want them to know it was me. I shut it out, and instead recalled sitting in the court waiting area.
The feeling of utter dread.
Some of my family and friends were there to support me, but I knew the courts would read out every detail I had told the police during my recorded interview. I felt physically sick. I had to get away. How could I be in that room when a stranger would be reading out the most horrifying things that happened to me. You see, it was not something that just happened the once. I was sexually abused by my uncle for the first 12 years of my life.
There, I have said it now. But why is it so hard to say? Why does the victim always feel a sense of shame and guilt when speaking about their abuse?
The very first time I recall trying to tell someone what he was doing to me, I was 4 years of age. I said something to my mother which implied that I had seen his private parts. My mother approached (her brother) about this, and he promised he had done nothing wrong. He lied. He made me look to be a liar. She believed him.
We moved around quite a lot when I was young. I come from an extremely poor background, my father left us before I was born, and there was a period of time we had to stay with relatives as we had nowhere to live. We lived with my mother’s sister for about 3 years.
He also lived there, and the abuse continued.
He would find ways for us to be alone – whether watching tv, listening to music, or even helping me with my schoolwork. He was always lurking when I was alone with anyone else. I remember feeling threatened just from the way he would look at me. He wanted to make sure I did not mention a thing to anyone. He was almost caught out once, it could not happen again.
When I was 8 years old, we finally moved into our own house and I was so relieved. He had gone to live outside of the city for one reason or another, and I remember thinking at the time that if I told my mum about the abuse, I would be blamed. I decided not to say anything. I was finally happy, after all. I felt comfortable; I could be myself! I was doing so well in school and was amazing at sports. I was selected to represent my school and the local harriers club – and I was so good! I even set a few records. I finally loved my life.
But that would all change again.
One day, close to my 9th birthday, my mother told my siblings and me that my uncle had returned to the city, and instead of living with my auntie, he was coming to live with us. The feeling of dread returned. How could this be happening? I was in such a good place! But what could I say?
He moved in, and the abuse continued.
I started acting out at home. I was not performing my best at school or in sports. I remember feeling so uncomfortable if any adult male looked at me or gave me any attention – even though completely innocent.
I remember my uncle would often say really mean things about me in front of the family, he would constantly put me down. But as soon as he could, he would make sure we were alone again, or if my siblings were in the same room, he would always make sure I was sitting next to him. No one else.
What could I do, or say? No one would believe me anyway. I was miserable.
My 9th birthday came and went, and I started spending a lot more time at my nan’s house whilst my grandad was away working on the rigs. It was my way of keeping her company and getting away from him. But eventually, he started staying there at the same time as me, telling my nan it was not safe for us to be in the house alone.
Then my grandad became ill. He was diagnosed with lung cancer. My world collapsed around me. My grandad was the only male I could ever trust, and he was dying. My uncle finally moved to his own place to be closer to my nan if she needed any help.
We would often have to stay with my uncle during this time. I doubt I need to tell you what was happening. But I was older and had a better sense that what my uncle was doing to me was wrong.
The very last time I recall him trying to get me alone, he had come to my house, it was late, and my mum was upstairs watching Terminator 2. He tried to rape me, and I just froze. Why was he doing this to me? I knew it was wrong, but I could not move. I was so afraid. Then my mother called me, and I jumped up, fixed myself and ran straight to the door. Before I could leave, he asked, “When are we going to do this?” I knew what he meant, but I did not want him to know this. I just replied, “Do what?” and ran upstairs.
I wanted him to realise that I was only young, and this was not something I was instigating. It was all him. I sat with my mum and watched the movie, even though it terrified me at the time. I would rather that, than be alone with him.
My grandad passed away, and we moved home again. My uncle moved into my nan’s house so she was not alone, but I would still often stay with her to keep her company. I recall the abuse slowly stopping, until my 12th birthday when I had my first period. Then it completely stopped.
I was so relieved, but at the same time, I had siblings and cousins who were younger than me. I wanted to tell someone what he had done, to make sure he did not do it again, but I was terrified I would be blamed, or nothing would come of it. Or that my family would completely disown me and take his side.
I had learned that many years previous, before I had spoken to my mum at the age of 4, my uncle had tried to abuse my older cousin. But he was caught straight away and was taken to the police station. He received a slap on the wrist and was told not to do it again. That was it. A warning, which he did not adhere to; he simply chose his next victim. Me. And he made sure he manipulated me enough not to tell a soul.
My mother should have listened to me, knowing what he had previously done to her niece. She told 3 of my aunties at the time, too, and none of them done a thing.
So, I kept this all to myself.
I trusted no one. I found it difficult to make relationships. Boys would always expect something; something I could not give. I told myself I would not do anything that would make me feel uncomfortable, and if someone genuinely cared for me, he would wait.
I finally found that someone. We were both 17 when we started dating, and he waited and waited. He never made me feel uncomfortable. I was able to open up to him about being abused – but not in any detail, just who and when.
We were together for 4 years when I gave birth to our first child – a girl. We owned our own home, we had steady jobs and things were looking positive. However, during this time, my uncle also started a relationship. They moved 2 streets away from me, and they were expecting their first child the same time.
His partner gave birth to their daughter the day after I had mine. I was in turmoil. He had his own daughter, who he could be alone with at any given time. Why had I not told anyone what he had done to me? If he done anything to her, how could I ever forgive myself?
I sank into a deep depression. I could not even look at my own daughter without the feeling of guilt rising within me. Life was just too much to handle. I tried to overdose twice. Following the second attempt, my mother took me to our GP and told him she thought there was more going on. He asked me if there was, and I just stared at him. They knew.
My mother drove me home, and we sat in the car for what felt like an eternity, talking. She finally got it out of me. Her brother had sexually abused me throughout my childhood. She was distraught; she knew she was part to blame. Had she listened to me when I was 4, she could have prevented the continued abuse.
I told her I did not want anyone to know. It would kill my nan if she ever found out. The family would be completely torn. But my mother wanted to confront him, and let his partner know – after all, they did have a daughter together.
A few days later, my mother, sister and I went to my uncle’s house. We told his partner. She was in tears, so I played it down and told her it was not that bad. The next day, he asked if we could talk. I agreed, and he drove me to the place where he always goes to when he needs to think. (I hate that place, now). He told me how he had been abused as a child, and how he would never do anything to harm his daughter. It was all about him. His partner decided to stay with him; he got away with it again.
I decided I would never speak to him again. I distanced myself from him and the family, but the guilt still ate away at me. What if he had done it to other children, not just me. Who is to say he would not do it to his daughter? He always found a way with me, so surely, he could with her.
Fast forward to 2013, I decided enough was enough. I had overcome my depression, had another child – a boy – and I was ready to get some justice. He had to own up to what he done to me. He should not have a daughter 6 years of age living with him.
Speaking to the police was hard. Having to describe in exact detail what that man had done to me with a camera in my face. I was reliving my trauma all over again. The flashbacks started; I was remembering so much more. But what was worse, was learning that not only had he abused me, but at least 4 other girls in my family. Either he admitted to it, or they spoke up.
My family completely broke. I was told I should not have spoken with the police, and I should have let the family ‘deal with it’ instead. Even my nan told me to leave her be and just focus on my own family. That I was lucky I could do that, and he could not because he was in prison. Like it was my fault he was there.
Everything I had always worried about was happening right before me, as if in slow motion. But I could not let it break me. During the criminal proceedings, I was able to meet with a counsellor through RASA (Rape and Sexual Abuse, Merseyside Charity to help victims of sexual abuse). However, I was prevented from talking about my trauma; the sessions having to focus more on the experience of the proceedings, rather than the abuse itself. RASA invited me back for more sessions following the sentencing, where I was able to talk about the abuse, but I no longer felt I could.
But ultimately, I was completely let down in every possible way. He always managed to stay close to me, even after the abuse had stopped. He had always had this control over me, and I would not allow it to continue. I had to take control of my own life, for my sake and the sake of my children. I had to give them the love and support I never had.
I always think back to what the judge had said when sentencing my uncle. “If I could sentence you to 10 years for every count of abuse, I would.” Unfortunately, the sentencing at the time the abuse had taken place had to be given. My uncle received a 5-year sentence, with a third of the sentence removed as he had pled guilty. He only had to serve half of his sentence. My uncle was in prison for a total of 18 months.
18 months – for 12 years of my life completely taken from me. The judge knew this was so wrong, but he was powerless.
Why am I telling my story? Reading back, it all sounds so pointless. Everything I was worried about, had happened. My uncle barely has a scratch on his record. Yes, he is a convicted sex offender, and cannot see his daughter, but that is no less than what he deserves.
I can still walk about my
city and bump into him at any given time. I still suffer with flashbacks,
nightmares; my marriage eventually ended because of this. I'm awaiting treatment for complex PTSD (post-traumatic stress dissorder) and hoping this will finally help me move forward.
What do I deserve? I deserve to tell my story. I deserve to change the system. To give power to those who are going through or have survived sexual abuse.
We are conditioned to believe we should not talk about what has happened to us. We should keep it to ourselves. Our little secret. It is more embarrassing for the abused to talk about their experience(s) because, somehow, they are made to feel as though they were in the wrong. There are more repercussions for the abused, than the abuser.
We need to normalise the talk of sexual abuse so that other survivors feel they can open up. We need to turn the tables and focus the shame where it belongs, on the abuser.
I managed to get some justice, though, perhaps not enough. But I am in a better place for it. And if I can do anything to empower other survivors, I will.
The person who abused me is nothing. I am proud to have
come this far and able to tell my story as a survivor.
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