The following is a small entry from my personal writings, logging my journey as an adult in my late 30s and 40s as I embark on a journey towards justice…hopefully. ‘Historical abuse’ does not accurately portray abuse experiences from childhood. They are not historical as they are alive in every fibre of a survivors being. No doubt we’ve learned to hide, to smile, to focus on others. But it is time for survivors to come into the light and shed the heavy load that is weighing down the ability to reach our full, wonderful potential. This particular entry is from late 2017 in preparation for a court case in the December which didn’t go ahead. I am awaiting the trial later this year.
So it has begun. The countdown of the year is almost within acceptable realms. I hear the calling of twinkling fairy lights, goodies in the cupboard that I know I will eat way before the big day and early sales in Smyths to nab a bargain for the kids.
At work, I’ve turned my attention to who wants what time off. Tuning in to the dreaded ‘can’t get it right for everyone’ acceptance that most managers have to experience. Arranging the team ‘get together’ to celebrate the year and all of our achievements…there are so many…but all I see is an abhorrent grey pulsating cloud enveloping my normally very visible sun rays.
I politely chuckle when a colleague says “It’s only 49 days to go” and responding with an “Oh you! Not long to go now!” Inside I’m screaming “f**k off with your annoying attempt at joviality”. (Yes, I know what you’re thinking…bah humbug and all that!)
This year is soooo different. The ‘C’ word of Christmas is associated with another ‘C’ word. A ‘C’ word which fills me with dread, fear and angst with the most fleeting of thoughts. The ‘C’ word which to me is just as vulgar and vile as the four letter ‘C’ word expletive itself.
That word is COURT. Being a witness, the victim, in a trial is nerve wracking enough, but having it happen the week before Christmas has challenged my very essence of stability.
For three years I have been on a journey of a wretched release of memories, emotions and cognitions I had learned to stuff down into the depths of my subconscious with minimal leakage. The can of worms have managed to wriggle and squirm into every orifice of how I live my life and the relationships I hold dear, and they aren’t done yet in this gruesome take over of my sense of self.
Writing the words sexual abuse is almost as hard as saying them. I’m sure it’s a little uncomfortable reading it too. But it has to be said. The stigma is still immense, keeping my emotions locked in like a caged animal with only negative thoughts to feed on.
Time has unravelled my belief in justice. The ultimate achievement at this point would be to be believed. Being believed with my home life still intact would be even better.
My strategy currently, is to imagine myself sitting down with my family for a scrummy Christmas dinner (as scrummy as mine can be as I do tend to traditionally burn something…or everything) and then settling down in front of the box to watch Dr Who.
Dr Who – an alien who travels through space and time in an endless quest to keep hope alive. So I guess I’ll start with that as my new association with the ‘C’ word…hope…and my own journey towards thriving again rather than just surviving.
So, until hope evolves into peace, I shall eat, drink and be…well…as merry as possible. Prosecco helps with that 😉
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