[1] Unaware
Fear was a constant companion in my early years and clouds most of my adolescent memories.
The handful of photos that exist of me growing up show a boy who looks happy and loved. And at times, I was. I experienced love from my mum, my nan, my brothers, and my friends. But the photos also told a lie. A skill I developed over time. The art of acting. To appear to the audience that all is well because the consequences of telling anyone, paralysed my body in fear.
Mum epitomised the true meaning of a hardworking woman, going to great lengths and doing whatever it took 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 no matter what troubles she faced, love was the one thing she unconditionally gave without ever asking for anything in return.
On meeting the man who would become the closest I would ever experience to a father, she finally felt she had met ‘the one’. Someone who worked hard, made her laugh, and promised her the world. Ten months later, Mum gave birth to her third son. This is where my earliest memories of growing up begin.
Mum was on the sofa in the council flat, with my younger brother asleep in a Moses basket next to her. The front door is wide open showing the communal staircase ahead. I can see my nan climbing the stairs and following close behind was my stepfather, Tom. I would have been weeks away from turning three. My eyes met with his, 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.
With it not being the biggest of homes, it wasn’t too hard for sound to travel. Tom, a stout man, 5 ft 8 who suffered from asthma 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.
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I would awaken from my sleep at the very first step he climbed, my body consumed by fear, holding my breath as the sound of his breathing intensified with each passing moment as he climbed the stairs. Light from the hallway would flood my bedroom as the door quietly opened and in Tom would come. Again, no dialogue shared, just a point or a look to the window. I struggle to recall when this began, but I was very aware of what he wanted. Quietly climbing out of bed, I would walk over to my bedroom window and there I would stand, staring out at the darkness. His eyes on my back, the sound of his heavy breathing, he would stand there for what seemed an eternity. My young legs shaking in fear, wanting the noise of his breathing to disappear. Eventually, he would walk out, closing the door behind him.
Darkness.
There, at the window I would stay, standing for as long as my 3-year-old legs could manage, terrified to move. I would try and fight the silence, the darkness, the cold, and the fear by thinking of a certain Peter Pan, wishing he would come take me away to Neverland. On hearing Tom’s snoring, and with the pain of my legs taking its toll, I would curl up into a ball on the floor by the window and trying not to sleep I would wait for the sun to rise.
On hearing Tom’s alarm in the morning, I would stand up by the window and wait. Again, I would hear his heavy breathing as he moved from his bed, making his way to my room. The door would open and a snap of his fingers would signal me to get back into bed. I would avoid meeting his eyes, because when I would, my body would flood with fear. The feeling of the mattress, the softness of the sheets and pillows, the complete opposite of the hard bedroom floor, is something I still remember to this day. I would remain there until Mum came by to ‘wake me’ for school.
The window game carried on for many years without anyone knowing. Tom would always go to bed after Mum. My older brother was the first to discover this routine, but that didn’t stop Tom, as my brother and I shared the same fear. Looking back, we all did.
I was in my twenties when I first told someone about this. Alcohol assisted the revelation,
I could see the pain in their eyes. It broke me. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. We spent the night talking. It was only on seeing the hurt, the anger, and the love that the word ‘abused’ surfaced.
It’s been a few years since having this conversation and now I feel ready to share this story. Certain posts will be harder to write than others, but I feel a responsibility of sharing my story. Being so unaware of the abuse I was subjected to as a child and as a teenager and not having the acknowledgement of what I went through for so long, has contributed to many of my attributes today. Only now am I starting to understand why.
If I can somewhat help those through my writing, who 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 today is that day.
