Learning the Art of Writing

Posts tagged ‘child abuse’

My first steps to freedom


The first time I told someone it felt strange, something I had kept so close to my chest for all those years just exploded out of me. I was 21, I am now 54, but I remember it has if it was yesterday, its the feelings really I remember more than anything.

Although I did bury my feelings deep inside my soul there was always a little showing, a little lace along the seam has Joni Mitchell would sing and I always knew just what she meant for me.

Early morning and the pressure in my chest began to mount, words just single words banged against my head and I saw myself sitting him down and explaining without any fear or hurt the pure facts. During the developing morning the fear would take over and I would rehearse the words now forming a disorderly cue to get out, suddenly the eruption of hurt made my eyes sting with hot tears that shook my shoulders and made my lips crumble.

I held myself in check, the memories flashed on the screen of my mind, flash backs are just that. It is so strange… in the outer world the television has a morning decorating programme showing , and the telephone rings but I am stuck somewhere being five and sitting on a unfamiliar bed looking at my blue shoes and my urine stained five year old legs, knowing the world that has been part of all of my life has gone and there is no-one there to hold me.

The echoes in the hallway comes as a very strong memory, the sounds of loud voices whispering and shuffling around the door of the dormitory, would come in my dreams has I grew older.

The clock in the living room crept up to the appointed time and his hand on the front door, began a reaction in my brain. I had to keep cool or I would say too much too quickly and frighten him away. He needed to know just what it was like for me without the emotion, just what without the numbers being tattooed on my wrist Bel-son my Bel-son was like.

Men liked the facts, my face was flushed, I made an excuse to go to the loo and splashed water on my face.

I drank deeply the breathing space it gave me. he settled down on the settee with his cup of tea and his smile, I looked at him with my steely eyes, “I must tell you something” I said. I maneuvered myself into the chair opposite him a quizzical expression on his face had replaced the smile.

His eyes were always kind, and this day I felt he sensed something that he had not been able to put his finger on was about to come to light.

The words dropped like stones and lay on the floor and his eyes followed them, his shoulders hunched as if to protect him from the bitter, jagged edges of the syllables. Tears rolled on to his cheek and he did nothing to stop them.

Many hours later when I could talk no more, he held me, he loved me there was no shame or guilt, or black echoing hallways where loud voices whispered “poor cow”just a warm accepting that my experience although terrible was just different to his.

Sexual abuse has coloured my world, and it has been a murky gray most of my life, the flash backs and abuse has taken me in and out of the black hole so many times even in the bluest times I remember that day like a bright gold dream where I was held and believed, validated and I achieved my first steps to freedom and a rainbow held the bright blue sky.