TRIGGER WARNING of Abuse and Self Harming.
13 years ago, two planes hit the Twin Towers. 13 yrs ago souls were lost due to terrorism, disgusting and violent. 13 years ago, the world realised that terrorism could come to us in our somewhat comfy lives in the West.
13 years a go, I ran away from’home’. I ran away from my abusive guardian and my entire existence. I ran to Germany to live with my biological mother who I had not seen since 11 years old. I ran scared that any moment the person who tormented me would attack me, grab me or hurt me again.
I didnt have the happiest of childhoods. A mother absent for lots of reasons and none which matter now, a guardian who hated me.
I had a very unhappy childhood. I stopped crying. I stopped crying when I was beaten. When I was punched in my bed at night for not doing something earlier in the day. I gave up being sad when I was thrown about the house. I remember once begging not to be killed when being punched in the head. I remember my Granddad (his father) coming home and shouting at Him to stop hitting me. This old man was my gladiator. He was old, and ill. We didnt know how ill. I have since heard he has passed on due to cancer. I wasnt informed. I hurt from not saying thank you for all the wonderful things he showed me in my somewhat bleak childhood.
I recall birthdays that werent celebrated unless another family member was visiting. I recall non uniform days I was deliberately not allowed to take part in because He didnt want to spend money on me. Small but resulted in bullying at school. The bullying at school was nothing like what went on at home so I could cope.
I was never told well done. I was made to feel like an inconvenience. I was nothing more than a punch bag and cleaner. I cleaned. I washed. I was called ‘Cinderella’ by neighbours. I know one reported Him to social services but nothing happened. I remember one neighbour years later telling me she heard Him threatened to ‘brain me’ if I screwed up the gardening. I know people tried to watch out for me but they felt helpless. I once reached out to them to help me, but instead they told him. Not their fault. They didnt know what to do. He beat me.
I recall being fined for things, being punished for things out of my control. I remember being told I was going to be nothing. I was the idiot. I was the no one.
I was only included to keep up appearances. I was trained to only be the shadow in the background. No one needed to know about me. I was an after thought. I was introduced after everyone as the ‘step daughter’. I remember sitting with my back to the TV as I hadnt earnt the right to watch His tv. I remember being shouted at for daring to read Reader Digest. I wasnt allowed to read newspapers, magazines or watch TV. I was sometimes invited into the living room to watch films but I was never spoken to.
I recall the bottles thrown at my head. I recall bleeding into my dinner and still being made to eat it. I remember blood smearing the wallpaper from another beating. I recall cleaning it off and then being screamed at for marking the wallpaper doing so.
My last beatings stick out in my mind. I left the house, unable to cope. So much more went on in my life. So much more. I cant go into it.
On this night, I walked out of the house. I walked about the town in the dark thinking of ways to get away. I eventually came home. I walked in the door and there he was. I was beaten. More than ever. I was beaten for leaving his son alone. I know that was wrong but I couldnt cope. I wanted to die. I was unable to cope with a child who was helping in small ways to my beatings.
The next night, he did the same. I did the same. I came home, and again the beatings happened. I didnt react. I begged to die.
I didnt die though. Bruised and with another broken nose (well it sure felt like it).
The 3rd night he did the same. I did the same. I came home.but this time, no beatings. He realised he had beaten me. I was done. I wanted to die. I wanted to no longer live. I was 16.
I used to bash my head against walls when I was at my lowest. I didnt know how to cope. Alone I was silent. I couldnt make conversation with him. He would bark at me to talk and if I tried, ridiculed me. I learnt to shut up. At school I was normal. I lied about my home life. Invented stories of happiness and family filled activities. The shame of being unwanted, unloved and a punch bag was too much to share.
I was a bright kid. I did well at GCSE. I knew school would be my way out. Education is a key to use in life to unlock so much. He did allow me to study. I found that if I asked for his help in something trivial to do with my studies, he loved to gloat how dumb I was and would spend hours talking down to me about it, but this meant hours without physical assault.
On September 11th I came home from college. I came home to find a packet of Lambert & Butler cigarettes on the table. My mother was back. I hate to say I saw a chance to escape but I did.
I ran away. She aided it. I had only a small suitcase. full of Blondie and Iron Maiden cds and very little else. When he knew I was possibly leaving, he punched me in my chest as I sat on the floor. I didnt flinch. I had learnt something from him. Pain is something you can ignore and control. I had learnt how to lock my own mind away. How to cope. I was later told by a psychologist I was mentally tortured and had learnt skills often taught to SAS to cope in capture and torture scenarios. I learnt to not feel pain.
During medical observations in the military, multiple healed head fractures were found, broken and remoulded fingers, a severely deviated septum from numerous broken noses, remoulded ribs, the list goes on. One doctor asked me if I was abused in my child hood as this is what he could only assume from the level of injuries. I told him I played rugby lots ( i didnt) and he didnt believe me. At my request, we didnt speak about it again.
My childhood can be denied but testimony from neighbours, medical professionals and photos cant be denied.
For me September 11th was the greatest day of my life. I ran away. I ran away and started again. A new country, a mother to get to know and a life to start. I didnt do it well to begin with. I hated everyone. I had little social skills and made life very hard for people. I have learnt slowly.
My September 11th is my favourite day. I am sorry it is marred in such awful memories for the rest of the world.
I dont hate this person who did this to me. I dont regret my childhood. I am a very different person because of it. I am very much my own person, my own. I dont want revenge. I dont want a witchhunt. facts are facts. Dont be alone. Be strong and reach out for help when needed. Dont let your past define you. Its a building block for your future but isnt the only way.
I have not gone into details. I dont want to upset or shame. I am much more than my childhood.
xxx
