Category Archives: Journal Entries.

Charlotte

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26

Two years ago today my heart broke when I watched my daughter come into the world. I touched her for just a second, wishing she could open her eyes.

I wrote this sometime between then and now, I don’t really remember when it was, it’s been such a long road.

For Charlotte

I want to hold your hand.

Sometimes I want to hold your hand; I’ve lost a thousand tears for you
I close my eyes and make a wish, but I know it won’t come true
To hold you in my arms one time wouldn’t ease my pain
You were born sleeping, and that’s how you remain

I often lie awake and think of you
My little angel fast asleep
I wish my wishes would come true
And help to steal my pain

I will spend my life remembering you
I love you, I always will

Roller coaster week

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8

What an odd week I have had.

So many things have gone on that my head feels like it’s on some odd kind of rollercoaster ride and I can’t quite get off

I lost a friend this week, a friend that acted in a cruel manner and I broke my making it to 1st October with the self-harm issue because I’m not equipped for such conflict. My count is back to zero. It had built up so much inside that I just had to let it out. It even made me ill enough that I got sent home from University. While I feel a lot of guilt that I gave into my own self-destructive behaviour, it was such a relief. It was like being able to breathe.

Of course, it hasn’t fixed the situation, I think it is probably for the best in many ways. I have days of wanting to be silent and days of talking. It’s too much to expect someone who doesn’t understand to handle I wonder if I should blame my parents for stealing my present too or if I should somehow tell myself to just deal with this and make myself get on with life.

I wrote today. It’s a part that has taken me a long time to do. It’s probably one of the hardest parts for me to write. It brings about so many feelings and so much anger that I don’t really know what to do with them. It feels like I can’t scream loud enough or I can’t get my words out. Nothing I will say will take away what I feel inside.

I think some part of me gets mad at the place I got sent; that it even exists at all. We read in the papers or see on the television often about how some person got arrested and had hundreds of indecent pictures of children on their computers. This is how the law cracks down on child pornography.

While I understand this part of the action, I don’t recall ever seeing news that the police closed down such a place where these images are made.

What about the poor children who are in these pictures? What about the adults that are also with them and doing many disturbing things? When will the law crack down on child pornography that way?

My father was a great one for that. He would rant and rave about these kinds of people that had these images. I would stand there and think really? It almost feels like I lived a different life to the morals he seems to spout to the world.

I remember coming back from such a place as this and my father asking me if I had had a good weekend. I was seven. What was I supposed to say to him? Yes? Should I spit out the horrors that I had just endured?

In my mind, I thought he didn’t know where I was or what I had been doing. He never spoke about it. I just got collected and delivered like goods. The things my parents said in normal life were the opposite of their actions on the other side.

I don’t think I know how to put it all together and tell my mind that my parents knew exactly where they had sent me; that it was their choice so, when my father asked, I had no choice but to nod in silence and tell him that I had.

Inside, I had died; even more so when I listened to the tales from my brother about everything that I had missed whilst I was gone. The things he had done with the family. A trip out to the funfair, a drive up to the country, new toys, new games, clothes, sweets, books. Everything that I didn’t have. I could never work out what I was doing wrong.

I wish there was a way I could get this all out in words. That I could take it out and put it here and leave it. But I don’t know how. I don’t know what to say to make it go away.

I guess this is kind of a ramble of things.

On a plus note, I got some replies from volunteering. Perhaps, at least, I can help someone else along the way.

Pastry

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6

I made pastry the other day. An odd post, I know. Perhaps if you are reading this, you’re wondering why it matters? People make food all the time. It’s an accomplishment. For me; some kind of step.
In the past if I need to make something such as this, I would buy it. Ready rolled too, then I wouldn’t have to do it.
Why does it matter?
Because I suffer from Emetophobia along with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
They make for the most horrific times in my head. My hands are never clean enough. The side to make the pasty on is not hygienic enough. It doesn’t matter how many times I clean them. If I clean the worktop then my hands are dirty. When I’ve cleaned my hands, well, what If I didn’t do the worktop correctly?
I clean the worktop again and I’m back to my hands.
Add intrusive thoughts and any number of things can happen that will always lead to becoming ill and inevitably, vomiting.
It really wasn’t worth the trauma, because at the end of this cycle, I would be broken. I would feel so damn crazy that I wouldn’t be able to cope. I often say, I feel like a sane person in a crazy man’s mind.
And I do. I have a logical side but it gets ignored.
I have such a terrible phobia of vomiting. It fuels my OCD and the many things that could happen to me and I can’t get passed them.
Not so long ago, I refused to eat chicken. Chicken is so easy to ruin. I wouldn’t touch food I was going to eat with my hands.
Have you ever seen someone eat crisps without their fingers?
I developed many cunning ways to get around my fears and thoughts that I adapted myself.
But, I wasn’t making myself better. I was making myself worse. I was telling myself that these protective measures worked. They stopped me from getting ill. They stopped me from making my children ill.
So, putting my hands into something as simple as pastry; making it and putting it onto the work top and then eating it without fear was like …walking over a checkpoint.

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A Child’s Voice.

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6

Today I was reading about someone that was running a child abuse awareness event. While I all in favour of these. People need to be aware. They need to be able to spot the signs. They need to be shown; please don’t look away just because you don’t want to see.

There’s another side. I think, or at least I wish there was something when I was a child that was for me. Not someone to come in and save me. Not someone asking questions about what was going on. Of course people see a child in harm and they want to rush in and take the child away.

What a fear I had of that. How awful it would have been for someone to do that to me. I cannot tell you how afraid it made me. That someone would take me away from my family. I would be punished because I was being abused. I would lose my Nan, my brother, my beloved dog. My home. A new school perhaps? New friends? And then after that, my parents in prison? How would I live with myself knowing it was because of me? What of me and my brother? Would we have been split up? Would we have stayed with my Nan? Such a huge responsibility on the shoulders of an already troubled child.

There’s also, what if no one believed me?

My father was well known. Well loved. All his mates down the garage area where he worked knew what a great guy he was. Supporting his family. My mother too, always smiling. Always happy.

I did get asked once. One morning when I was eleven my teacher took me to the library and she asked me if anything was going on at home. I’ve never been so afraid in my life. All of the above thoughts crashed through my mind. What if this happened? What if that happened? What if I never go to go home again?

I could do nothing but cry. I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to lie, but I had to. I did. I told her that it was just me and my brother fighting. I don’t think she believed me, but what could she do? She wrapped her arms around me and let me cry. I don’t know how long for, but it was probably one of the only hugs I ever got as a child. I’ll always remember it.

I wish there would have been someone I could just talk to. That would not act unless I wanted to. That gave me control of my situation, because after all that’s one of the things that’s taken in every way. The abuser takes control in their way and the saviour takes it another way, by telling a child what is happening is wrong and then ‘saves’ them.

I tried to tell my best friend one time. We were walking to school and I asked her what she would do if someone she knew had bad things going on at home. I pretend a boy in my class had told me. She said she’d tell her mum and dad. So I shut my mouth. Never mentioned it again. Even my best friend could not be trusted with my secret.

I just wanted to tell someone, but I was locked away with all the possible repercussions.

Throughout my life I have come across many children in need. Some I have taken in and some I have just helped. But I didn’t once force them to get help. I waited. I told them what I thought was wrong, what people were doing, but I said, when you’re ready I will help you. They just had to ask, and they did. When they trusted me. When they knew that it was safe. They had control all the time. One of the children, whose stepfather was beating her, now resides with her grandmother. She calls me often just to tell me the most inane thing. Another, I talked to and helped her to get to hospital and the last I heard she was off into foster care and another whose drugged up mother and stepfather were treating him like a slave was brave enough to report his mother, he now resides with his father.

The girl probably took the longest, for three years I listened to her telling me her stories, I held her when she cried. I hugged her, but I waited. Some might think this is the wrong action; I was letting it happen perhaps when I knew what was going on? But what was I supposed to do? She would have lied until she got to that moment she was ready to speak. I held her hand when she did so.

Instead of child abuse awareness, I wish there was something like child awareness. A place for them to go just to talk. Where they are in control no matter what is happening to them. Give them back their voice.

I understand that this is not the case in all situations, some are life threatening, but it is something I would love to see as a first step. A Mr. Ted for anyone that needs it.

A friend.

The revenge of Yes-Man

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14

The revenge of Yes-Man.

If there’s ever a post I regret putting online its yes-man. Not because I regret my words. I meant them. I still do. But they were mine, meant for me. A sort of pep talk to myself to say its okay if once in a while I said no. I thought posting it up I was just sharing. It’s there for anyone else with the same problems to see and there for others to just read.

What I didn’t expect was the repercussions of it. And good god did I not expect them. I’m not sure why people have taken it to act on what I said and now assume they are bothering me so they need to leave me alone. I don’t recall handing out boxes of kid gloves at the end of my post for people to wear and use to handle me with.

I hate being treated like glass. Like I’m going to break. Maybe that sounds harsh, selfish even. I know people mean everything with the best intentions, but what gets lost along the way is I’m a man. On here, this is the broken part of me. The bits I get stuck at. The pain I have to let out. But really it’s just a little part of me, not all of me.

I’m crying inside, not me but the child. A boy I was, locked inside in pain. His sadness is there. Sometimes I’m sure he’s going to take me down and have me curled on the floor sobbing for all I’m worth.

Then there’s the man, the anger, confusion, frustration. He’s not sure if he should point at the boy or point at the parents, sometime he’s so locked in doing both he wants to rip his own head off.

That was me today. The man. We did a thing today in class on my course about safety. Feeling it. Of course I couldn’t think of a single thing. I realised I’ve never felt safe. Not once. I’m always looking over my shoulder and always have.

I’m not sure what this triggered for me. I wrote about it, no doubt I’ll post it another time, but what I got left with was feeling miserable. Sad little boy took over and I felt helpless. I was hiding him. My smile was fake and forced, there was so much inside he wanted to let out but couldn’t.

I realised in general I don’t have a support system. But Yes-man I see stole that from me tonight with his negative effect. Everyone saying something along the lines of, your not feeling good today, I’ll leave you alone. Or you don’t have a lot to say ill leave you alone and I’m bothering your evening, I’ll leave you alone.

So what happened?

I got left alone. The people that care about me, decided to act on yes-man and give me what they thought I wanted. It’s hard not to be mad. Mad because no one asked me. But I have to answer this with, their intentions were good.

The downside is, I was alone, when what I wanted was someone, anyone I guess.

It’s all become such a mess I’m not sure how to undo it. People treat me in premeditated ways. Their actions are thought out and I can feel it with each of them, so they get a guarded piece of me back, one that acts accordingly to them.

In many ways I wish people that knew me, didn’t know my story. Then they’d treat me like they treat any person, but on the other side, I wish I just had someone I could talk to, someone that isn’t so emotionally involved they try to fix everything for me.

I just need someone that wants to listen and will treat me like a normal person.

Anger

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11

Anger.

Why am I not angry?

I have talked a little about this in recent posts. Or maybe a lot.

I wonder why I am not angry at my parents for what they did. I haven’t ever been; not really. I can get angry when my father is spouting his rubbish at me over the phone, but after, then it’s gone, and what is left is some kind of sorrow that I can’t shift.

I think I need anger to help me focus and see what was right and what was wrong. If I can get angry at the wrong maybe I can see what was right.

I need to experience the anger. I don’t think I have reached that. I read about recovering from childhood abuse and understand that an abused person has to grieve. I do not think I have done this. I don’t think I have even reached acceptance.

Yesterday, it felt as though I was crying on the inside. I couldn’t shake the feeling for most of the day.  When I talked to people and laughed and smiled, it was so forced that I was sure they could see it wasn’t real.

When I think of the things my parents have done and I put the blame on their shoulders, why do I feel nothing? It is almost like I can’t connect to the anger that is there and I can’t link it to them. The only portion of anger and hatred I can feel is towards myself.

I don’t understand why, but I am trying.

Maybe it is fear. Maybe if I get angry at them, then I have to blame them, and that leads to accepting that they did these things.

I have to find the starting thread of a very tangled web and somehow begin to unravel it. I wish I could be angry that I have any of this in the first place.

That little boy deserves me to be angry and to fight his corner.

Yes Man

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4

Yes Man

 

Funny film, but not what this post is about.

I have been thinking about the replies I got to my post about Blame.

See here.

Thank you to the wonderful people who left them. I had expected people to say it wasn’t the child’s fault. Of course, anyone would say that right? Even me.

But I looked at what each person had said and tried to see it how they did. Of the biggest fingers that are pointing to blame, there is one that says, I never said no. I chose to go to my father or whoever my mother thought I should.

I have to ask myself why? Was it for love? Its part of it, I am sure. But also, there is rejection and that is one of my biggest fears.

I have to look at many sides of this and they all come down to that same thing. Rejection.

I was trained to never say no. If I said no I was going to be rejected. But, I wonder if it could be that simple. I see it in my actions now. I am talking to someone in a Facebook chat, but I’m dying to go to bed, or to go off and write, but I don’t. I’m afraid to say, I’ve got to go. It feels like saying no to them. I am telling them they cannot have my time right now and this will make them not want to talk to me later. This is my logic- it’s inbuilt.

I think back to the days when I was taking drugs. I took more and more. I played around. I tested. I did not fear death. I also didn’t want to say no. I might lose my friends if I wasn’t jabbing a needle in my arm and being that person they wanted.

When I was into that life, people wanted me around. I was the guy with the bike, the drugs, the money and women. I didn’t care. When I was a person I thought they wanted me to be, they wouldn’t reject me.

I see it in relationships too. I was a terrible cheat, never faithful to anyone. I look at why I was. I didn’t really care for half the women. Some, I couldn’t tell you their names.

So, why did I go ahead and get intimate with them?

Fear. Fear that if I didn’t give myself over, in one way or another, I would get rejected.

I see this ‘yes-man’ in so many things and in so many times when I have been hurt.

The Yes-Man was at the helm.

I wonder if that is the reason I never said no to my parents.

Perhaps the times I chose to go to my father willingly, it wasn’t that it was my choice outright. Maybe I was being who he wanted me to be so I didn’t get rejected.

My father trained me to give myself physically and mentally in order to hold onto people.

He created Yes-man.

Sleep and Anger

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21

Sleep and Anger.

This will be one of those posts that isn’t really about anything. Nothing more than getting the crap out of my head after an awful night. 

I’m angry. Im not angry at anyone but it’s making me angry at everyone. Anyone that dares speak to me today is likely to get the head bitten off. I’m sure that I’ll be full of apologies later, but there’s all this anger inside and nowhere for it to go, so it’s going here, via my insane ramblings because it’s all I have.

And I’m tired. I just want one night where I sleep. One might where I’m not afraid. Not even 10 minutes last night and I was startled awake by the stupid crap that goes around in my head. Then it was a night of terror. I have no one to get mad at for it. No one to shout and yell and ask why the hell I have this. Why did this have to be my life and what I got?

I wish he’d go away. I wish the bad man would leave me alone. I’m tired and I’m done with him. I don’t want him here anymore, but there’s no way out. No way to stop it once it goes dark.

Sometimes I think it would have been better if they’d have just took it that step to far. Put me out of my misery at the time. It would be better than this.

All I see is faces. His face. I feel his hands. I see others. Tables. Children. Trees and darkness. A million memories I can’t quite reach. They feel like a movie in my head that I can’t get rid of.

I’m bound to everything.
Bound in silence.
Bound here.
Bound in memories.
Bound to tables.
Bound in darkness.
Bound while they watched.
Bound while my mother laughed at what was happening to me.
Bound to everything.

I wish my mother were here. I wish there was a way I could take all this out of me and give it back to her. I wish I could show her what she’s done.

I can’t even show my father because I see him and he shows me how it’s my fault and it makes me feel bad about it.

There’s no where for it to go and I’m not going to self harm today.

I’m not.

I won’t cut it away. So I’m writing here and trying to make it disappear, but all I feel is anger.

Blame

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35

Blame

It seems to be something I have battled with for a long time. Not just me, but others like me, I know it is common to feel the blame and to look at myself and say it was my fault. After all what else do you have when you are a child and don’t understand how people work. Someone’s hurting you; It has to be your fault right? 

I still can’t get passed this and I have tried. I was writing a couple of days ago and it wasn’t until going through it, that it really clicked in my mind that this particular incident was the moment blame took up residence in my mind on a permanent basis.

I was seven years old, it was the middle of the day, and it was daylight. So much different than normally, when it was night time and dark. I could close my eyes then. Pretend that I was asleep. I believed that if my father thought I was asleep then he didn’t know, I knew what was happening. Then he wouldn’t look at me in a way that showed my shame. If he thought I was asleep then neither of us knew what was happening. I believed that my father didn’t know what was going on between us and if he didn’t know, he wouldn’t look at me and hate me for it. If my eyes were shut and he thought I was sleeping, he was reading my brother and I a bedtime story, then neither of us was aware of what was happening.

However, the part I was going through happened in the day and I did something else at the same time, so it appeared I still didn’t know. My father wasn’t reading and I was awake. I didn’t leave the room. I didn’t say no to him. I didn’t stop him and I don’t know why. I could have done. I’m certain that had I got up off the bed and left the room he would have let me.

This is the moment when my shame became blame. When I started the truly hate that child. He didn’t stop his father.

 

***

I understand if people reply to this, they will say it wasn’t the child’s fault. It was the mans. He was the adult and the boy was a child. That’s because no one ever blames the child.

Suicide.

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26

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Suicide.

I read an interesting blog post about this today, from another survivor. I say another survivor which is really a lie. That person is a survivor I am not, I just didn’t die that’s all and there’s the difference.

The blog however was insightful, for the first time I had seen, someone saw it the same as me. She planned her suicide date as her fathers birthday, a bittersweet revenge perhaps? Where as mine would be when my father has not talked to me for a while and I’d hope it took weeks for him to learn of my demise. I’d want him to know that he didn’t have the right to be informed. He wasn’t top of the list and he’ll miss my funeral.

Of course before anyone panics, I’m not going to do it. It’s a mere fantasy. I can thank my children for being here and taking away that option. I’ll admit sometimes I get mad about it. It feels like I’m trapped here when all I want is for it to be over. I come close sometimes, but all I do is imagine their faces. I imagine them alone with no one to be there when things in life get too bad. When they just need their dad.

My father is not taking that from my children. I’ve been there for every moment in their lives and I’m going to keep being there, even when the days are hard, when the pain inside is so bad I’m begging almost for it to be over.

I’ve tried before of course to end it all, clearly with no success. The first time I really recall I was seven. I lay down in the bath and just didn’t move with my head in the water. I think I almost did it too, I floated away inside my mind, the need to breathe had gone, and my saviour, ironically was my father and his belt.

I didn’t really try again until my late teens, but I had no fear of death. I took risks, I didn’t care, if death was going to claim me I was going to tease it. It didn’t work of course. Even when I almost died at sixteen some part of me wanted to live.

I’d got septicaemia. It was a loving parting gift in a way from my fathers actions, that I’d been too ashamed to deal with and I was found with no temperature and hardly a heartbeat, my friend didn’t waste any time in calling an ambulance, he even called my father who refused to show his face, he was simply too busy at work to deal with his son that was being rushed to the emergency room.

I was eighteen the next time I tried. I’d landed myself with my special needs son because his mother couldn’t cope and I’d just lost my second child to the cruel hands of fate. I walked out the hospital completely broken, not hearing anything passed the doctors words that started I’m sorry. I spent two weeks getting drunk until I tried to slit my own wrists. The unfortunate timing of another friends visit soon blew the end to that one, but kicked me onto my downward spiral of illegal drugs.

A year later I tried again to end it. A come down from a concoction of drugs and nothing to live for except a son who I was failing, I necked a bottle of pills. I was sick for days after. Funny really I always thought there was no escape when you tried that way, but seems my body wasn’t playing.

Twenty three was the last time. My life was happy. I’d met a nice girl. My son was doing well. There was a new baby on the way. I’d been clean from drugs. I had a job, was going back to school. I had everything, but the pain inside I’d spent my life running from. That agonising sadness that’s nestled deep within my chest was so consuming that I felt helpless. It was a letter from my daughters mother that stopped me. She didn’t know of my past, but she had read some of my writings and she replied to one. I’m grateful to her, she saved my life in so many ways, she’ll never know.

I haven’t tried for a long time since these. Not even when I lost a second daughter. I think about it. It’s in my mind every day. The sadness is still there, but now it’s nothing more than a pleasant fantasy.

Something I keep on the back burner. It pops into my head at random times. When I’m driving, I think, just a quick flick of the wheel and I’m done, it’s over. When I’m out running, what if I just closed my eyes and ran, would a car hit me? Would it be quick?

Then I think of my children. They are better than any sadness I feel. In selfish ways when it feels too much, I let them make me smile.