Horror Story? No, my reality …

• December
• 2

6:00 am Mental Illness, Survivors of Abuse, The Friday Files

The Friday Files continue …

Crouching down gingerly behind the industrial bins, I found comfort in a pile of hessian sacks. Carefully, I eased my bruised body underneath one and curled up into a tight little ball, grateful for the warmth and protection it offered from the chill night air. Even now, it is difficult to describe the pain that I was in. Every part of my body felt swollen and it was difficult to move. My head ached from the blows, and my arms and legs stung where they were raw and grazed, especially when my tears landed upon the broken skin. But the worst pain was the utter misery and desolation I felt.

Why had this happened to me? Again? What had I done to deserve this? Where could I go? What would happen to me? How could I get away? Who would believe me?

It sounds like a horror story, but this was my reality as a child being raised by a parent with a severe psychiatric illness. The scene above was one that occurred with monotonous regularity in the years after my father left – so from when I was 10 until maybe 17 or 18.

After any fight or altercation with my mother, I would determine to run away for good. But each time, I found myself drawn to the same spot. Only 5 or 6 houses down the street was a small block of shops, and I would find myself hiding in the dark behind them (hence the industrial bins and hessian sacks).  Ironically, there was a police station only a dozen or so houses in the other direction but it was rarely manned at that hour of the night. And who would ever believe me? They would just take me straight back to my abuser, thinking that I was the troublemaker! I’d already experienced the pain of being disbelieved by those who could have helped or made a difference.

We lived so close to a train station, and main roads, it’s a wonder I never took off once and for all, to make a life for myself on the streets.  But there were a few reasons. First of all, I had not a cent to my name. Being raised in an abusive home, I had quickly learnt that the only way to survive was to obey and follow the letter of the law no matter what, so hitching a ride or sneaking on a train without paying my fare was something that just didn’t even bear thinking about. I had nowhere to go, and I knew that life on the streets for a young girl like myself was a recipe for disaster – crime, rape, drugs or worse.  Perhaps the hell I found myself in wasn’t so bad after all?

Nowadays, I look back on it and I think that God had somehow set a boundary or guard around the block where we lived, and no matter how hard I tried, it was like I was physically unable to step out of that comparatively safe zone.

If things were so bad, why on earth did I stay until just two weeks before my twentieth birthday? It’s a question that I have often asked myself. I think part of the answer is the same reason that many women stay in a domestic violence situation. The whole abuse experience so weakens their self esteem and confidence, that they feel trapped and unable to escape; plus they feel that they have nowhere to go, no options for the future. I had no job, no money, no means of support. Plus I had three very big reasons to stay: my two younger sisters and brother. I felt incredibly responsible for them, and knew that they would suffer if I deserted them …

… Thirty odd years later, I thank God every single day for my loving husband, beautiful children and the peaceful home that I helped create. The close bond I have with my siblings. Joy, hope, love, security, comfort, peace, contentment, healing. God really has restored the years that the locusts had eaten (Joel 2:25).