Coming 1st September

This journey has been an odd one; I didn’t even know I was on it. Dear Teddy was born out of a conversation with my therapist at the time, a way for the child to speak after so many years of silence and being locked away in the dark. Once I gave him a pen and told him it was okay for him to talk, he didn’t stop. He had so much to say, and he did.

Goodbye Teddy is the fourth and final book in the Dear Teddy series, as with the previous books; it is told through the eyes of the child. He asks you to walk with him as he shows you his world. This is a tale of child abuse in all forms. Every page takes you through the horrific events and the ways he came to survive them. It shows you the betrayal by those very people that should have protected him; his mother and father.

Listen as he shares his secrets, his fears, his hopes and dreams. Laugh with him, cry with him, but don’t stop or close your eyes.

 

sept1stExcerpt

I sit on the cushions. I look at my dad’s bottle of petrol. Maybe I can drink it. It is poison. My dad says it is. He shouts when my brother plays in there. Because there is lots of things and it is poison and can make him die and go to heaven. I look at it lots of times. Maybe I can drink it all down. I think about it inside. Maybe it tastes nice. I like how it smells. Maybe it doesn’t taste very bad.

I reach over and get it. I open it. It smells nice. Maybe I can count. Not to four, though. Four is very bad. I count to three. One, two, three. Then I can drink it and I can go away and then everyone is happy about it.

One.

Two.

Three.

I lift the bottle up and then I put it at my mouth. I don’t tip it yet. I don’t keep the crying part away. I don’t ever be any good. “Drink it.” I say it very bad to myself. “Drink it. Drink it.”

 

 

It’s her shame, not mine

Today

I feel so bad today, inside it feels like I can’t breathe, I want to cut so badly. I even visualise it, not just doing it, but the pain that comes from it, like unzipping my skin to let myself breathe, the same way one might do to relieve the strain on a tight pair if jeans.

That’s what I need to do. I watch the blood in my mind, it rolls down slowly from where I have cut, it’s warm and soothing, like a miniature carrier, it’s transports my pain to the outside.

I try to ask myself why I’m feeling this way, what’s causing it. Things are happy, I should feel happy. I shouldn’t feel this emptiness inside, but I do.

Then I realise, maybe it’s the child inside, the one fighting and hurt with so many things going around my mind and no one to sooth him.

A dream from a couple of days ago, one of a memory and I think, I can’t share that. I can’t tell anyone. But I can. It isn’t my shame. It’s my mothers it’s all hers. She did it to me, not the other way around.

I feel like I’m choking in the memory of her telling me to touch her tongue with mine, and her doing the same. Hers so much in my mouth that I couldn’t breathe.

It’s not my shame. It’s hers. She did it. Not me. Not me. Not me.

I think about the things she did. Where her hand went, the way she laid on me. I can feel it there, almost like it’s right now.

I get afraid to share this. I want to hide and run away.

But it is not my shame.

She did this to her child. The woman that was my mother. Not me.

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Goodbye Teddy – Review

Out September 1st

 

A pre review of Goodbye Teddy

This book is heartbreaking. It gives the reader closure at the end. I was unable to put it down until my eyes just simply gave out. This was the first day of reading it. I finished it the second day.
It is graphic, however the reader cannot totally grasp how horrific the brutality is without it. It is needed to let the reader understand what the boy went through.
It picks up at age eight. The molestation is so brutal and continues to get worse. I wanted to climb into the book and rescue him and take him away from the horrific brutality that he had to endure. I wanted to give him the correct kind of love and give him a better life. He deserved to have a family that loved him without abusing him. Not only does he endure brutal physical pain, but mental pain as well. He is broken down until he feels like there isn’t an end.
I cried so much until I became even more angry with the adults that ripped this boys life apart. I wanted to hurt them. Then I couldn’t cry. The tears did come again as he continued to be attacked.  Covergoodbye words
This is a world-wide problem and we need to educate ourselves on the signs of abuse that we have been given by the author. We owe it to him to make a change.
The author has shown so much bravery in sharing his story. The way in which It is written makes you feel like you are with him every step of the way. But we are only on the outside looking in.
This book is a must read!

Smile and Pretend to be Normal

Sometimes I feel like I’m always fighting something, like there’s no peace in my head. I’m sure often I give people the idea that maybe I am never happy, which I am of course, just like anyone else. I can find joy in the little things like walking my granddaughter along the stream not far from us, through all the trees and things she has yet to discover and name. It’s so wonderful to watch her sometimes with the innocence she has of a two year old.

 She points to the water and looks up at me with that face, she smiles and says “wet” and I nod and say yes it is wet. Then she points to her feet and says “shoes” and I know she wants to go paddling, so I take her hand and we do. These are the little things I can find my peace in.

 Inside though, it’s different. My mind is panicking about everything. When did I last eat? Is it going to come back out, every mouthful I take has the potential to make me sick, and as I’m eating I remember, what if this time? So I put my food down, throw it away and try to decide if the rumble in my stomach is hunger or illness. The more I think about it the worse I feel. What if I get sick?

 I’ve washed my hands so much thy feel sore and dry, the skin on them feels tight. I stand trying to think, are they clean enough? Did I touch something bad? Did I wash them properly? As I stand I don’t even notice I’m clawing at my scalp or my arms and I don’t realise that I’m bleeding, scratch marks run down my arms, my scalp feels like it burns from where I’ve grazed the top of the skin off in my absent minded scratching frenzy. funny-quote-pretend-to-be-normal

 I try to hide the noises I make in my throat, feeling each sound and when I can’t I do it again, making me sound like I’m clicking. Numbers fight with symmetry and I’m breathing through my nose just to feel the scratch.

 1 – time, it’s not enough.

2 – it’s a division of four

3 – Yes I like three, that’s my number, but it’s not even.

4 – I can’t even think about resting there. Four is bad. Four is terrible. Something bad will happen if I leave it at four. Four makes him come. Bu he can’t and I’m big. He’s gone.

5 – No, not right, like three it’s not even.

6 – Six is good. No link to four, divided by three and it’s even. But Six is divided by three  to get two, two is part of four.

Stop it!!! I try to tell myself.

 Stop it.

Stop it.

Breathe.

 I look down at the water and try to focus on my granddaughter, but I see my reflection. My reflection. No it isn’t, it’s someone vaguely familiar, not my face, just something the same. I see the badness there. There reasons for the bad things.

 No wonder people do bad things to you, I say in my head. You’re pathetic and stupid. How can anyone care? Look at you, look how stupid you are.

 I wish you would die. I wish I could kill you. I wish I could die. Just to make the madness go away. I hate how I feel.

 I look away, back at my granddaughter. She smiles at me and stamps her feet making splashes. She reminds me why I can’t end it.

 I smile at her. Smile and pretend that I’m normal.

Blame once again, pondering thoughts.

20130809-215759.jpgBlame is one of those things I keep coming back to. I think I have it right in my head and then it’s gone again. But it’s an essential part of my healing so I keep fighting to see it how everyone else does and not through my eyes.
Guilt and blame seem to go hand in hand with each other. Guilt by association is an odd idea though, but it makes a lot of sense. Have you been at school and some people are talking, but you all get told off and sometimes all end up in detention? Or even more serious things, such as if you were with someone that burgled a house, even though you don’t go in, don’t smash anything or steal, you are still guilty by association.

Children are taught when an authority figure tells them off they listen. It’s something that’s there from such a young age. When children have friends over and that friend does something wrong, the child is told off by the parent, not the friend. They become guilty by association also. So what if the child is being abused?

They may know the abuse is wrong, but they don’t tell, some never tell because they feel the guilt.

No one would ever have believed me with my father. Not a single person. On the outside he was a good man. He helped people. Polite, well spoken, intelligent with a nice house, children etc. Yet there was this secret he and I had.

Isn’t it natural that if a child and parent are doing something bad and wrong together, the child feels guilty? Not because they should, but because the adult has tricked them and pinned some of the guilt on them to retain silence.

Motherly Walls and Brick Hugs

I was reading something today about hugging, not general hugging, but actually the way people use hugging in therapy for Autistic children, it can seem quite a bullying technique. It made me think however, about how my dad used to force hugs on me, not the friendly fatherly kind, but the kind that pulled me close to him because he had an erection and he thought it was amusing to tease me in such a way so that I was squirming to get away from him in case he did something.

I don’t think I ever got a real hug from my parents. When I am looking to blame myself for childhood events, often people tell me that children crave affection and that they need love and hugs. This is one of those things I’ve tried to understand, because with my parents and their abuse, sometimes I went to my dad. When I have said this before I have been told that it was because I was starved of affection and it was the only way I could get any. I’ve never really believed that was the reason. I don’t remember being starved for affection, I know I didn’t get any, I just don’t remember thinking yep I want a hug, so I’ll go and let my dad sexually abuse me.

Today though whilst reading about this hugging therapy and that children need hugs for whatever reason, perhaps it’s just because I am nearing the end of Dear Teddy 3.5, but suddenly I remembered a child that would hug a wall or the door frames. At night when I didn’t feel very well I would hug myself up against the wall and cry and try to get some comfort from it. At school when no one could see me I would lean against the cold bricks and hug them too, putting my small fingers into the gaps between the bricks and closing my eyes, or when my mother couldn’t see me and I was in the dining room once again having been punished for whatever I had done, I would hug the wall between that room and the kitchen. Concrete_wall

I realise I actually still do it now. When I am sad or upset I lean against the wall so the side of my face touches, I stand so that the frame of the door fits against my shoulder and I can lean my head against it. It’s always been soothing me. My children ask what I am doing when I have stopped hallway down the stairs and I’m just leaning against the post.

I guess I don’t remember being starved for affection because I found a way to replace it. The wall.