The blue hot pants I’m wearing came to me as a gift from my Aunt Kath who was living in Paris at the time. The white top was gifted me from my step mum, Carmel, not long before she left my dad, and me. Underneath the white top is a lemon colored bra with white lace and a white bow at the front of it. My mum, who was living in Blackpool at the time, sent to to me, and Carmel taught me how to fasten it. I still fasten my bra the same to this day

Why do these memories stand out so vividly in my mind? I was visiting my mum in Blackpool the day this photo was taken. My brother, who I’ve cropped from the photo, was sitting next to me on the sofa. If you knew me, you would notice the sadness and resistance in my eyes. You might recognize that something isn’t right with me and if you really knew me, you would ask me “are you okay?”

My mum, who took the photo, was probably more concerned about taking a photo of her two children, together, in her living room. We lived apart at that time, John lived with my mum and I lived with my dad.

I don’t recall how I got back to Preston? Was my dad there and we went home on the bus? Did my Aunty Barbara and Uncle Iggy take me to see my mum and they drove me home? Did I go home alone on the bus. I have no memory, but I do remember…

My dad taking me to his bedroom when I got home, unbuttoning the straps on my hotpants, feeling them drop to my ankles and him pulling my knickers down and having sex with me from behind.

He wasn’t invited, but felt privileged to do whatever he wanted to my body, which by this time felt like a separate entity from my being; referred to at times as “disassociation.”

I’m driven to write today after watching the victims of the Jeffrey Epstein files speak at the news conference last week. They each held a photo showing the age they were when they were abused. My own photo came to mind immediately, along with many images I haven’t recalled in a long, long time. “This Was Me.” It struck such a deep chord inside of me…

My innocent 11 year old self – the little girl who wanted to be a singer, a nurse, a policewoman; who loved school and sports and being on a team and making friends and who loved animals more than anything in the world. A girl who wanted to be married and have babies, cook and clean and do the washing; a traditional female role I witnessed around me.

I felt anger. I felt compassion. I felt empathy. I felt sadness for those victims and for myself. We were robbed. We were raped, we were forced to engage in sexual activities that should never have entered our imaginations until we were old enough to want them or choose not to engage. The key word being “choose?’

Watching those women share their stories, I wondered how they are now, how do they function? Are they able to enjoy sexual relationships with men (or women) and not endure flashbacks? Do they enjoy the sex or do they numb out, disassociate, lay there waiting for it to be over?

Are they addicted to – sex, drugs, food, shopping, porn, gambling, anything that allows them to escape the hauntings of the abuse? Are they fat, are they skinny, do they neglect themselves, are they unhygienic? Do they like, or love or dislike their bodies?

How are their relationships? Are they healthy, co-dependent, avoidant, unfaithful, successful, open and trusting. Are they open with their partners about their abuse, or are they suffering inside, struggling to cope with intimacy? Is the damage unmendable?

Clearly, they have each told someone about the abuse, and now they are telling the world. I admire them. I ached for them as I watched them speak. I had so many questions for all of them. I wanted to sit and share stories, see how are we similar or different; ask how they coped from the moment of abuse until this present moment. How has it affected them in so many ways. Do they trust – anyone at all?

Do they have ADHD, OCD, are they control freaks, can they attach to people, are they nurturers or abusers themselves? Do they isolate, are they fearful of anger, do they shy away from confrontations?

It’s the first time I have ever witnessed so many speak their truth. The relief I felt for them, for myself, to hear their words, freeing themselves of all the fear and oppression that comes with being abused and the terror of speaking up, yet they did and they have.

Abused – I looked it up:

use (something) to bad effect or for a bad purpose; misuse.

treat (a person or an animal) with cruelty or violence, especially regularly or repeatedly.

the improper use of something.

cruel and violent treatment of a person or animal.

Simple explanations, shielding complicated and eternal repercussions. Simple words that carry the weight of each person’s story of abuse, so personal, yet so many similarities of the scars that remain…

#THISWASME

#BEBRAVEANDSPEAKUP