Lost & Found — a childhood betrayed, trust elusive but freedom and strength found
It is hard to understand as a child why you are disliked by your mother so much.
Even more, what to do about it?
I was four years old when my father tragically died at twenty-eight. His untimely death left my mother with the onerous task of raising two small children, alone.
Truth of it was, my mother didn’t really try to raise us, protect us or care for us. She did not know how. At least this was my experience and a sense of my mother’s indifference and coldness, remains.
My sister was made of sterner stuff, even the thickness of her arms was greater than mine.
Born of the same Californian beatnik mother and an anti establishment West Country dandy, my sister and I could not have been more different. One was bright, academic and confident. The other was shy, clumsy and emotionally withdrawn.
Without finding or sensing any love from my mother, I longed to find someone who would love and care for me or at very least notice me.
Donald did.
He became a critical and pivotal part of my life for more than 25 years. He was my guardian, confidante, friend and first love.
When a child has no one to confide in, no friends, no parents or relatives who do you turn to and who do you trust?
I turned to Donald.
I trusted him, loved him and came to see him as my father.
I was thirteen when I was sexually abused by him and this uneasy secret relationship lasted into adulthood.
My childhood stolen, I became bound by a secret that I dared not reveal until I reached my forties.
Growing up in Gloucestershire, I had no friends, save Donald.
No relatives I could confidently confide in.
“Trust no one” was a common phrase in our household and I took it to heart, anything less than allegiance was considered a betrayal.
I was terrified as a child at school and terrified growing up. I was considered uptight, Repressed, withdrawn and perpetually on guard, lest my terrible secret relationship would be exposed and I would be made to feel the shame and public humiliation.
I hated school and tried to survive best I could. I escaped into a fantasy world of adventure books and tales of daring do, where villains and heroes were clearly defined.
Books were my release, my refuge.
Playing super hero, creating secret identities and writing code as a secret agent was my domain.
As I grew into my twenties, I didn’t particularly dwell on what had happened or the type of special relationship I enjoyed with Donald.
Complicated, is how I would describe it for many years.
We are tied by an unbreakable bond he used to say.
Donald was my only model of a father and on the flip side, my mother was my only experience or understanding of a mother’s love.
I became haunted and wrestled with a knowing that my mother did not like me.
Guilt ridden, I realised too that I neither loved or trusted my own mother.
Less than 2 years ago, I came to accept that I had been abused throughout my teenage years and that I had been “groomed” from an early age.
But my anger and suspicion was never directed at Donald, only my mother.
As the only surviving parent, I felt she should not have seen me as the enemy. But at forty-seven, I now understand that is how she did see me.
When my father’s life was cruelly cut short my mother was angry that he had died leaving her alone with two toddlers.
Bereft of hope; penniless with no apparent chance of rescue, my mother was very angry.
When she looked at me, she saw her husband and transferred that deep unrequited anger, bitterness and disappointment to her young son.
Cruel and spiteful fate had prevented her from having the life she yearned.
Growing up in a fragmented and conflict ridden family my mother craved a nice country home, stable husband and financial security.
She never had experienced any stability or security growing up.
One of three children born of warring parents, neither with any real sense of responsibility, Both rebels in their own right.
When her Mum and Dad divorced, custody of their children was shared and my mother was raised by her Dad and Godparents.
At 18 my mother went travelling. She came to Europe with a girlfriend and finally settled in England securing a job with a local family as an au pair. She met my father at a wild hippy party and not long after meeting, they got married. She was 19 and he was 23.
I was born in 1968 and my sister in 1969. By 1970 my mum and dad had split up.
Then in 1972 he was killed. No chance of reconciliation between them now possible, except beyond the grave.
Just a few years later, my mother received news that her brother had been murdered in the USA, disturbing intruders at his house. Reeling from one tragedy to the next, my mother faced some tough decisions and was in desperate need of a saviour.
She found Donald.
He was sharing rooms with friends who were leaving and he needed somewhere new to stay. My mother ever practical agreed to rent rooms with him. The relationship was one of convenience and necessity but soon turned to something more permanent.
It was not a physical relationship. My mother was aware that Donald was homosexual and that no intimate relationship was being offered. Ever pragmatic she accepted the terms.
Donald later told me, he had been appalled and dismayed by the neglect and lack of responsibility shown by my mother and felt compelled to step in to prevent two wild, undisciplined children of 5 and 7 running off the rails.
He cared.
Consequently, this helped to cement his place in our hearts and at our table.
What about Dad?
My Dad was a shadow and blur to me. My mother would never talk about him with any degree of warmth or give any real insights into his character.
He was unknown, a stranger; part of the missing jigsaw. Parts of the jigsaw I was looking to piece together to gain understanding of who I was.
As a child I was always warned of Dad’s “self destruct button”. I was constantly reminded that the same propensity lay within me and I needed to be protected from myself.
Each year I reached another anniversary was an achievement of surviving life!
Donald used to say he wished he could “wrap me in cotton wool and keep me safe”.
I became so protected and safe, I struggled socially as I got older and had little awareness as to how to conduct myself.
Being painfully shy was paralysing.
Donald encouraged me to follow my love of books and writing. At 16 I longed to work for Waterstones and finally realised my ambition in 1997.
An avid and voracious reader I became fascinated by the courageous exploits of the French Resistance and SOE. My passion for books was such that I began to collect books and eventually began dealing in rare first editions.
I set up my first online business in my mid twenties. Having no real friends, books and collecting became my life.
Then in 2000 due to complications induced by a heart attack, Donald died in hospital and the breaks came off.
In that moment of grief, my plans for my life dramatically changed.
Now for the first time I had the freedom to explore. Girlfriends, sex, horse racing, gambling and travelling abroad.
Donald now gone there was no controlling hand.
I had no one to tell me what to do and it felt strange but great.
I was free to make decisions, make my own mistakes and learn more about myself, human nature and the people around me.
London beckoned and I was about to fulfill a lifelong dream. To live and work in London.
London was where I learnt to survive and thrive; experience the excitement and dangers of life.
London, had always held a strong attraction for me as a child and I had long held the belief that If I could live and work in London, I could survive anywhere.
London is where I started to grow up, became aware of myself, discovered hope, love and opportunity.
After a series of relationships, I met someone who cared and noticed me for who I am.
I married in historic Greenwich at the Queen’s House in the Autumn of 2007.
Struggling to earn money, I finally found stability and greater financial security with a new job in October 2013 working for a boutique software development company.
The journey to discover self is challenging but I continue to seek out greater knowledge for self development and the courage to speak out.
Being true to myself, something I had to deny for so long, I value greatly.
In truth, I feel it is the only thing that really matters for then the soul can take flight and be free.
Having the courage to face oneself, to embrace and accept both the light and dark helps with the healing of the self.
Once I have honed my skills I hope they can be employed as a counsellor and therapist to help others experiencing difficulty, pain and low self esteem.
I was drawn to volunteer for NAPAC (National Association for People Abused As Children) late 2014 and through this rewarding work felt an even greater pull to qualify in counselling and psychotherapy.
Desire to be of service to others who struggle to find their authentic self and path to healing.
For those of you who live in the UK, have experienced childhood trauma and abuse or know someone who has there are a number of resources that may provide some answers.
There are many other valuable organisations but the above should provide some useful signposting.
Always remember, it was not your fault and there are good people who will understand what you have experienced and help you on the slow road to recovery.
