Undeniable

Fear has been a constant presence in my life and clouds most of my adolescent memories. The very few photos that exist of me growing up show a boy who looks happy and loved. This was a skill I developed over time. The art of acting. To appear to the audience that all is well because the consequences of being ‘found out’ would be severe.

My mother encapsulated the very true meaning of a hardworking women, who did anything and everything to put food on the table. By the time she had me, her second son, living in a council bedsit, she had many stories to tell. But whatever troubles she had faced, love was the one thing she gave out unconditionally.

On meeting the man who would become the closest I would ever experience to a father-like figure, she finally felt she had met ‘the one’. Somone who worked hard, made her laugh and promised her the world. Ten months later, mum gave birth to her third son and this is where my earliest memories of growing up begin.

Mum was lying on the sofa in the council flat we lived in. My younger brother asleep in a Moses basket next to her. The front door wide open showing the communal staircase ahead. I can see my Grandmother climbing the stairs and following close behind was my stepfather, Tom. Only weeks away from turning three, my eyes meet with Tom’s, no dialogue exchanged, just a knowing look that meant I had to leave the room. Heart pounding, I obey. I always obeyed. Still to this day, I struggle to recall memories before this, but for me to understand ‘that’ look, there must have been other times before. I don’t think I’ll ever know.

A few months after this, we moved out of the council flat and out of town to a nearby village. Three bedrooms, huge garden surrounded by acres of fields and hills. The perfect setting for three boys to grow up in. I lived in this house for the next 14 years of my life.

I loved the light, the sun and the daytime growing up. The nights, the darkness and the silence, I dreaded.

The house we lived in wasn’t the biggest of homes and it wasn’t too hard for sound to travel. Tom was a stout man, 5 ft 8 who suffered with asthma and found tasks like climbing the stairs a challenge, especially for his breathing. You would hear his deep nasal inhales and exhales on every step throughout the house.

As he took the first step climbing the stairs, I would awake from my sleep. Fear consuming my body, I would hold my breath as the sound of his breathing grew louder and louder. Light from the hallway floods my bedroom as the door opens and in Tom comes. No dialogue is shared, just a point or a look to the window. I struggle to remember when this began, but I was very aware of what he wanted. Quietly getting out of bed, I would walk over to the bedroom window and there I would stand, staring out at the darkness. His eyes on my back, the sound of his heavy breathing, Tom would just stand there for what seemed an eternity. Eventually he would walk out, closing the door behind him.

Darkness.

At the window I would stay, standing for as long as my legs could manage, terrified to move. I would try and fight the silence, the darkness and the fear by thinking of a certain Peter Pan, wishing he would come take me away. This boy who refused to grow up and flew in and out of children’s bedroom windows to take on great adventures to the Neverland was introduced to me by my grandmother one evening. We couldn’t finish the entire story in one sitting, so I protested too carrying on the adventure at any given opportunity. Peter would become someone I thought of a lot growing up. On hearing Tom’s snoring, and the pain of my legs taking its toll, I would curl up into a ball on the floor by the window and trying to stay awake, I would wait for the light of morning that I so longed to see.

The sound of Tom’s morning alarm wold send fear through my body and I would stand back in position by the window and wait. His heavy breathing would fill the room as he entered. I would turn to look and with a snap of his fingers and a point, I would climb back into bed. The feeling of the mattress and the softness of the sheets and pillows is something I still remember to this day. Exhausted, I would remain there until mum came by to ‘wake me’ for school.

This window game carried on for many years throughout my childhood without anyone knowing. One morning, my brother found me standing by the window and questioned why I was just standing there. Fear on my face, I pleaded with him to be quiet and he knew this was something to do with Tom. Having the same shared fear, he turned away.

I was 20 when I first told someone about this. Alcohol assisting the unplanned revelation, I was replying to a question about why I never talk about Tom. I let slip about the window game. My friend looked at me with both shock and hurt in her eyes. She took my hand and looking into my eyes, seeing the love she felt for me finally gave me the strength to speak out loud. Once I started talking I couldn’t stop. It was only on seeing the hurt, the anger and the love in someone elses eyes that the word ‘abused’ surfaced. Only then did I really start to understand that I was a victim of child abuse. Why did it take this long?

It’s been a few years since having this conversation and I now feel ready to share my story. The book is broken down into memories. Certain memories/ chapters will be harder to write than others, but I feel a responsibility of sharing this. Being so unaware of the abuse I was subjected to as a child and not having the acknowledgment of what I went through for so long, has contributed to many of my attributes today. Only now am I starting to fully understand who I am. This is very much a journey for me, as it will be for so many others. If I can somewhat help those through my writing, whom like me, have never had the opportunity to tell someone, to be heard, to be listened to or to be believed, then I have succeeded. Everyone deserves that opportunity. There is no right or wrong time to do this. Only when you feel ready and safe. And today, I feel ready.