The Author of my Being. Part 2

PaulMcCartney_letter.jpg

More about the trauma that entered my life when I reached puberty. Part 1 can be found immediately below this post, or you can click on the link HERE.

A few weeks after my father rams his tongue down my throat, a fifteen year old boy who lives down the road lures me into a caravan to “show me something”. Once there, he pushes me onto the bed, pins me down, and tries to tear my clothes off. At first, Im too shocked to take in the nature of his intentions. Terrified, I think my life depends on my escape.

Fear is metal-flavoured. Later I will learn about the chemicals released by the body, which prepare us for fight or flight, but at this stage I know nothing of adrenalin.

He’s underestimated the accuracy of my fierce reputation, and the strength of metal. I struggle free, and punch him a couple of times. He reels backwards, finds his footing. Blushing, and staring at the floor as if in search of some small thing he has lost, he stutters a three syllable apology, which repeats. He’s stuck, and doesn’t try to stop me from leaving.

I’m confident that not even a boy five years older than me will dare cross me twice. I’m correct. I have ways, and I take to making his life as difficult as possible. I’m safe from him, but nothing can exorcise the feelings of rage and shame that hit me again and again, every time I think of the attack. I feel no conscious blame, but somewhere deep inside, I’m soon to start totting up the abuses.

Meanwhile, my father and I are avoiding each other’s eyes. He’s floundering, scrabbling to plan a strategy. I spend a lot of time on my own. I’m often to be seen running through the field below our house. No longer is it a joy; merely an escape. When I reach the bottom corner, I crouch down and crawl into my secret, secure space. This den is a miracle of nature, its earth walls dry and lined with tree roots where I conceal my private writings and pictures of Paul McCartney. When I show him my tiny hideout, I’ll invite him in. We’ll sit opposite each other, our feet touching, while I show him all the items I placed here in preparation for his arrival. Everything which belongs to us is here, everything which reminds me of him. This is my shrine to him.

Paul is going to save me. One day his limousine will choose a scenic route to a nearby gig. While passing a gate at the top of the field, he’ll spot the clump of trees close to my den. With a strange sense of destiny burning in his chest, he’ll ask his driver to stop, get out of the car, leap the gate, and eagerly sprint down through the field toward the trees. Like a sprite, I’ll reveal myself.

Only then will he know that the hollow emptiness that has always stirred in his soul was due to the lack of me in his life. We’ll spend the rest of our lives climbing trees together, playing tag in warm shadows and running in the sun. On sleepless nights we’ll talk to each other about our perfect world, our silver voices flowing across the small gap between the separate tents in the field where we sleep.

This is my deepest secret. It’s the reason why I smile as I write in honour of him.

It will happen. Soon. It has to.

Our lives will be serene.
Our love will be clean.

I was ten years old, traumatised by sudden, unwanted changes, both in my horribly blossoming body, and in my  life. I dispised and feared the bulging bits, the blood, the bending cramps, and a future which may be filled with bastards who squeezed me as if I was a squeeky toy. When I was in my den, I lived out a fantasy. At all other times I continued to pretend I was a boy. It seemed like my only defence.

My innocence clung to me as tightly as I clung to it.

to be continued…

©Jane Paterson Basil

Advertisements

37 thoughts on “The Author of my Being. Part 2

  1. So many girls go through this same scenario, this being used, pushed around, treated as a receptacle for mens’ urges. It angers me and makes me feel utterly sick that so many of us have to endure this. Nothing changes under the sun, it seems, for no matter how much legislation is put in place (and I know we’re luckier than generations of women before us) inside some men’s minds, they still have their needs and we should be made to bend to them.
    Much love to you Jane xx

    Liked by 2 people

    1. The daughter of a woman I’ve recently got to know told me her horror story the other day. She had possibly the most abusive childhood of anyone I’ve ever come across. At eight, the rape began. At ten, cannabis and vodka (encouraged and even supplied by her father), came into play. She’s seen the inside of care homes and prison, been beaten and abused by boyfriends. She picked up a taste for crack somewhere along the way. She’s twenty-three now, and (probably thanks to her caring mother – who was and ill (and abused) throughout her childhood) she is now the loving stepmother of two lovely, but troubled girls (also with a history of abuse) and she works with homeless people. If you met this miracle woman, you would not believe how she had been dragged up, and how narrowly she escaped the gutter.
      This was ALL down to men.
      My story is tame.

      Liked by 4 people

        1. The same can be said of some women… and some so-called Labour politicians who would sit more comfortably in the Tory Party.
          I think I fitted in that little bit of politics quite neatly… speaking of which, I may be around your GREEN neck of the GREEN woods next GREEN weekend, as I’d like to take part in the parliamentary campaign for one of the political parties. You may think me a little GREEN, but I’m reasonably confident that if everyone who shares my views votes for the candidate they have the most faith in – rather than voting tactically, or voting for a party that is stuffed with closet Torieshas lost its way a bit, apart from having an excellent leader in that lovely Jeremy – there is a chance that Bristol may become a GREENer place.
          I’m not going to tell you which party I’ll be voting for, as I wouldn’t want to influence you 😉

          Liked by 3 people

          1. Haha! I’m glad you’re keeping your political leanings to yourself, then! I’m split – I like a lot of Jeremy’s polcies to be fair, the thought of trying to create a fairer country. But the poor man will never be elected …

            Liked by 1 person

            1. The great Anuerin Bevan must be turning in his grave… not for the first time. I’m sure he’d be fighting in Jeremy’s corner.
              I used to be a proud, card carrying, campaigning Labour Party leftie, but that was long ago, before that awful Blair took a right turn.
              “The people’s flag is deepest red…” I know every word, and often sing it.

              Liked by 1 person

              1. The party did change then didn’t it? I’m sure we’ve said this before, but how different things would have been if poor John Smith had lived – no New Labour, no move to the right … No involvement in the Iraq War? But who am I kidding? If there had been no New Labour, the Tories would have stayed in power and we would have gone to war anyway. Would be interesting to see an alternate UK without the Blair influence, though wouldn’t it? Would we have Brexit now? The breaking up of the UK (he was a Scot after all)? Ah, I wonder

                Liked by 1 person

        1. Between them, the Fab Four (The Beatles) whipped up a lot of passion amongst pubescent and teenage girls. Rather than being detrimental, for me it was a Godsend.
          Beatlemania… it was a heady time in the UK.

          Liked by 1 person

    1. I hope so… it can make those who have suffered similarly feel less alone, and remind them that such treatment from a parent is neither acceptable or the fault of the child, and careful action needs to be taken.
      The danger comes when the child is not believed, which often happens, or when the other parent is not prepared to rock the family boat.

      Liked by 3 people

  2. full of emotion, what a brave ten year old you were! Men /boys who take advantages of girls don’t take ‘no’ or fighting well, they are cowards. And you knew enough to know that you were safe from that one!
    Paul became your friend as you disassociated from the pain that was coming your way. Your safety valve, clever survival technique. i could never share the stories I know … but whether it’s dad and his mates repeatedly raping you from three years old to being molested once by an uncle at a family party … it’s all unwanted sexual invasion that is totally unacceptable … I will be most interested to see if any men comment here because I sincerely believe that is only when men taboo such behaviour that girls/women will be more safe. Peer pressure is necessary …

    Liked by 1 person

    1. some victims disassociate. I couldn’t do that as I was a fighter, so I fought, and I fantasised. I’ve done it all my life. It’s only just occurred to me that fantasy is no more or less than meditation.
      Your comment is a chilling reminder of the difficulties that women face in this patriarchal world.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. and it seems endless .. until men stand up for women predators will do exactly as they wish and say “I didn’t think it would matter” … if I had a pound for every time I’ve heard that I would be a very rich lady now!

        Liked by 1 person

      1. I’ve read it. And yes, you are brave – more often than just tonight. It’s obviously time for some the stories to emerge into the light. We all have our own bits of repressed, hidden inner stuff. It’s not easy letting it out. *hugs* xxxx

        Liked by 1 person

        1. Before clicking ‘publish’, I had to remind myself that the poem I was most embarassed about sharing was probably the one bit that showed me to be ‘normal’ – if there are such conditions as normal and abnormal.

          Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s