The ladies at if Only… will always be special to me. They allowed me to feel safe for the first time in years and, not only that, but they also encouraged me to follow my dreams of publishing a book.

The Survivor Memoirs has taught me a lot to be grateful for. Many childhood sexual abuse survivors have had to endure their torment from a very young age. I guess I should be thankful that my abuse only began when I was aged thirteen. This allowed me those thirteen blissful years that I could live flashback and nightmare-free. Every day, I wish I could change what has happened to other survivors and myself. However, through my experience, I am now better equipped to help individuals who are struggling just as I have. Navigating life with trauma is a tiring battle but the war can be won if we fight together.

Growing up, my brother was like a superhero to me. We had different mums so we would only see each other on the weekends when visiting our dad. My dad enjoyed indulging in alcohol and mine and my brother’s presence was never a deterrent. We spent many nights in the local pubs, this made me grateful for my brother’s company. I had become well adapted to being a child in an adult world, however, I witnessed far too many ‘bar fights’ at such a young age.

My brother was five years older than me and he would take me out shopping on occasions in the local town. With my small hand in his, he would navigate us around the shops, and I felt safe. My big brother always knew how to make everything just that bit more fun, and we would always be happily chuckling away together. As I said, he was the superhero I looked up to, he kept me safe and, above all, he made me feel utterly protected.

Family has always been paramount to me, I guess that’s why it hurts so much to confess I was raped by my brother. Being only thirteen years old at the time, my physical appearance was changing through puberty, and I was learning about my new body. I was, of course, a virgin, with absolutely no intention of that changing any time soon. My brother took that choice away from me by pinning me to my bed, in my bright pink child’s bedroom, and ripping my innocence from within me.

Another night, and another pub, showcased my dad, my brother and me. The only difference being, this was my brother first night out drinking since he turned eighteen. Making our way home, I felt happy, watching my dad spend time with his son for the first time in over a year. My brother had changed considerably in that time and looked so much older than he was, although he still had the physique of our dad; short and slim, certainly not the typical frame you would think contained a beast so frightening. Arriving home, we were all still happily chuckling away together before my dad finally laid on the sofa, letting the effects of the alcohol wash over him. “Let’s go watch a movie” says my brother. How nice is this spending time with my big brother again after so long? We climbed the stairs to my room, sat on the bed and started to watch a film. I would like to clarify here that this is something me and my brother always did when we were younger; I have since been questioned by authorities, “why did you go to your bedroom alone with him?” Why? Because he is my brother and we have done this since I was born! Did I anticipate I was about to be raped? No, of course I didn’t!

When my brother began his assault, it didn’t begin with me kicking and screaming. We were chatting happily together and there was no prior warning that my childhood was about to end. I blamed myself for years following the attack. Why did I not try harder to defend myself? Why did my body betray me by freezing when I needed to fight? He stretched across the width of the bed and grabbed my pyjama bottoms, I instantly froze. Using my pyjama bottoms, he pulled me across the bed from my sitting position, continuing to pull at them until they came free, dropping my legs onto the bed. I remember vaguely trying to hold the waistband tight in my grip, to no avail. The weight of his body came crashing down on me. Panic continued rising, I felt like I was drowning and being suffocated all at the same time. Thoughts rattled around in my head, until everything became one big blur that I could no longer make sense of. Why is this, what is this, where is dad, is he, am I in danger? Nothing made sense. With my body frozen solid, I had no choice but to lay there and endure the weight of his body smothering me beneath him. His head came down toward me, the smell of alcohol overwhelming my already heightened senses. I’m going to be sick. As bile rose in my throat, his face collided into mine. He began kissing me, all over my face, leaving rancid spit in his wake. As his face pulled back from mine, I realised he had paused to unbutton his jeans. I closed my eyes. Surely not, not my own brother? I began praying for time to stop, for everything to stop. The next thing I knew, pain tore through my skin into my very soul. I heard a cry out. I think it was me, but it was useless; no one was going to come. It had gone past the point when I needed to scream, it had gone past the point I should have run. Time had no meaning anymore. When I finally felt like I could use my body again, he had my arms pinned down, impossible to break his grip. I found all the strength I had and forced my legs into him to get him off. I felt his grip loosen and I threw myself away from him to the floor. Landing next to my pyjama bottoms, I grabbed them and began yanking them on. Even now, the thought that my brother was laying there watching me try to cover whatever dignity I had left, makes me sick to my stomach. His hand reached over the side of the bed and he began touching me again. Rubbing my legs getting higher and higher. With my trousers still half down, I ran from the room and descended the stairs to where my dad was passed out from alcohol. I entered the room and began shaking him, but nothing could wake him from his peaceful slumber. Not even the cries from his freshly broken daughter. I made a quick trip to the bathroom to wipe some of the fresh blood from between my legs and then proceeded to cower in the corner of the kitchen for a while, surrounded by my two cats.

After what felt like an eternity and still sat on the cold, hard floor in the kitchen, I began to hear a noise. The sound of my brother coming downstairs was the only thing that could break through the numbness inside me. I ran as fast but as silently as I could back into the living room and threw myself onto the sofa. I had just mastered evening out my breathing when the door opened, and my brother entered. He too, made his way into the bathroom and as he passed me, I kept my eyes squeezed shut as tight as I could and willed my chest to imitate that of a sleeping person. I continued laying with tears streaking my cheeks as he was in the bathroom. What were you doing in there? Cleaning my blood from yourself, reflecting on how you had just ruined my life? I may never know. As he returns from the bathroom, I know he must walk past me again, I risk a glance to my dad. Will his unconscious body lying there be a deterrent from another assault? I hope so.

My brother walks close to my head. I can’t see him, but I can hear him. He stops. What are you going to do to me now? I can feel his shadow towering over me, and I feel the desperation to run coursing through my body. Should I try to run? Where would I go? I continue to lay as still as possible, while my thoughts cascade around my head. His breathing is so loud, the only noise in the room, it is deafening. I try as hard as I can to stem the flow of tears from my eyes but it’s no use. Please don’t see them, please. I knew if he saw them, he would know I was conscious. Under the cover of the dark room, he doesn’t realise I’m awake. I escape him. Hearing the door close behind him was the signal, I was safe to let my tears flow.

***

I had become well-adjusted to bars and the drinking atmosphere. My mum was a single mother and did everything she could to put food on the table for me and my older sister, we were a team. Imagine Charlie’s Angels; we had an unbreakable bond like those three, strong females. In order to provide for us, my mum had to work two jobs. One of these jobs saw my mum as a barmaid, luckily, she could take me to work with her. Little did she know, every time her back was turned the patrons who occupied the bar stools most nights, would make advances toward me. Two of them even began taking me out into the garden, kissing and groping me very shortly after my virginity had been taken. Maybe they could see clear as day just how damaged I was at the time and knew that at only thirteen years old, I didn’t possess the fight in me to say “no”.

For years following that night, I was broken, and damaged. I began to chase the calmness that drugs had to offer, presented to me by one of the aforementioned patrons. I learnt how to roll a perfect joint; however, I hadn’t yet learnt my limits. This led to me smoking way too much and only momentarily becoming aware that I was naked on top of him one time. I didn’t stop it, I didn’t even want to try fighting him off, I just allowed it to happen. By fourteen years old, my body had become a tool for men – not boys but full-grown men – to use for their own gratification.

At only fourteen years old I found myself in a ‘relationship’ with a man who was eight years my senior. He lived in a house share and I spent most of that year cleaning up after him and his friends who had enjoyed ‘university parties’ the previous night. I would do anything for him and allow him to use me in any way he saw fit. Luckily, my time with him came to an end less than a year later, although, I went on to find myself in various other – and some very more dangerous – situations.

One of the events that followed haunted me for such a long time. I could forgive my adolescent decisions up to this point but then came the time when I had to partake in a sexual act to save myself. Although this situation seems minor in comparison, it is one that I could not forgive myself for until I began therapy.

Here is what happened.

My friend had an older boyfriend and we went to his house. He had sought refuge in the UK from another country and resided in this house with multiple other men, most of them being even older than he was. We were sitting on the bed when he called my friend the room. This left me isolated with his older brother. At the time I was awaiting my fifteenth birthday, he was in his forties. As soon as the younger brother had shut the door on us, the older man began his advances. He started with a smile trying to get me to make eye contact, but I continued feigning interest in whatever they had put on the T.V. Within moments he was sliding up beside me trying to kiss me, aggressively. The more I resisted the further he took his advances. He began trying to fumble my trousers down and I knew he wouldn’t stop until he was satisfied. I called out to my friend and heard her just behind the door, I asked her to come back. This was when I realised the younger brother was blocking the door and holding it shut. I began to panic and knew I had to take action before his advances escalated. I pushed his resistant hand away from me, took my own hand and plunged into his trousers. It took no time at all to find his erect penis and I pumped up and down as hard and as fast as I could until it was over. As soon as I felt hot liquid against my hand, I knew I was safe, he was happy and content. I had done a ‘good job’. After this, he began joining my brother in my nightmares. I would wake up to find my mum in my bedroom, it became apparent that I had been crying and slamming my head into the wall adjacent to my bed. The pain I would wake up to felt like a welcomed escape, it enabled me to disregard my inner torment by focusing on my physical pain.

Whole-heartedly, I wish this is where my abuse ceased, but it isn’t. However, I hope I have given enough insight into what my life had become. Before I begin to highlight all the good in my life today, I would like to travel back once more. There was a time in my life I believed I could have been saved from further years of anguish. I was at school and an opportunity arose to speak my truth to the police and, although I made the report, I couldn’t bear the thought of going to court against my brother. I didn’t have the strength left in me to subject myself to the scrutiny of a courtroom.

Speaking from experience, the repercussions of being disbelieved for someone already dealing with trauma can be catastrophic. I can recall so vividly my first encounter of denial. I was in class at secondary school and my tutor had received an email. Without reading it first, she read it aloud across the class to me in front of every student. The announcement went a little something like this; “Please could you report to reception. The police are here to speak with you about your recent allegation of sexual abuse from your brother”. I remember feeling like my body was frozen in place before I could bring myself to look around the room. All I could see was every pair of eyes transfixed upon me as if I were on display. Imagine for a moment those nightmares where you turn up to school completely naked, every ‘classmate’ is staring at you, judging you. Now remember the relief that washes over you when you wake up. Well this scenario was exactly like that, only I knew that this was a nightmare I would never wake up from. As I turn my head toward the person adjacent to me, I see his face. To this day I can see it so clearly, a face portraying absolute disgust. He was the first to break the silence in the room and his words were, “Ew, isn’t that incest?!” The room broke into whispered voices, some of degrading sympathy and a lot of disbelief. Following the remark from the disgusted student, I could not contain my rage any longer. I leaped out of my seat and lifted the closest thing to me which happened to be the chair I had just vacated. In a blind rage, I heaved the chair up as high as I could and rocketed it as hard and far as I could across the room towards that tutor. Not my proudest moment but to this day I cannot comprehend why the email was written in such words. I believe it contained unnecessary details and I wish I could just tell whoever wrote it that not only did they ruin my school years, but they made me terrified of pursuing the justice I deserved.

Weighing heavily on my mind for years following his attack, I wondered if the alcohol had played a part in what my brother had done. Did he feel guilt for violating me? Could he even remember what he had done? I made a conscious effort to avoid anywhere he would be afterwards, so I held on to so many unanswered questions. Three years ago, my questions were answered. I was reading stories to my children when my phone began to ring. I answered in my casual, happy “hello, me speaking” telephone voice. And then I heard him. I hadn’t heard his voice in approximately ten years but as soon as I heard it, I knew it was him. He was nervous, I could tell by how his breathing was coming harsh and fast down the phone. The sound took me straight back to that night. I relived the feeling of him pinning me to the bed, his whole body weight holding me down. My most vivid recollection is the way his alcohol-ridden breath slammed against my skin. I get various flashbacks from that night. However, something that is always present is that loud breathing. It feels like the room is full of sound, it reverberates off every wall, every surface causing my body to freeze in place once more. I think that is a lot of the reason why I am petrified of drunk people. I find them unpredictable and nearly every intoxicated person I have come across has that same way of breathing. I cannot help but think, if my own brother would do something like this to me, there is just no telling what someone else is capable of.

For ten years I hoped and prayed every single day that he would confess and, to my utter amazement I received a call shortly after my ten-year injunction had expired. I could never have imagined the news my dad was about to tell me. “He’s confessed” my father’s shocked voice exclaimed down the phone. I felt so happy, no longer did I have to justify myself or validate my ‘story’. “I can finally move on with MY life” my dad happily announced down the phone. I was left speechless. I may never know if my dad believes me, or even believes the confession from his own son. I have vowed to never tell my dad the true horror of the events that unfolded. I can live with the pain my brother caused, but I know that my dad cannot. I am his little girl, I am his ‘Babarias’ and he is my ‘Paparias’. It hurts me every day that I cannot reveal to my own father the extent of the lasting effects my brother has caused. For him, it has been and forever will be, easier to pretend as if nothing happened. I refuse to cause my dad further pain by revealing the truth and the battle will continue to rage on in my head. As a survivor, I truly believe that title encompasses protecting those around us. It is always best to share, of course, it is, however, there are certain people in life that are not equipped to face the reality of trauma. I encourage every survivor to surround themselves with people who contribute to their healing journey, as opposed to them hindering it. We possess the power to educate society so that we no longer have to live with these secrets. These secrets that should never have been ours to keep in the first place. Eventually, I ended the phone call by stating, “at least you can have a relationship with him now”.

I found myself sat once again on my kitchen floor. A different kitchen now as I had my own house, but alas a kitchen floor none the less. My cat was purring in my lap and I tried to contain my emotions as I shakily picked up my phone to call the doctors. I had my first cervical screening test booked within the hour and, following the news from my dad, I couldn’t bear to go. The reception lady answered, and I tried to keep my voice as calm as possible when I told her I needed to cancel it. She began questioning me why, I had already been putting it off and she wanted to highlight the importance of catching anything irregular early. I couldn’t hold it in any longer and I broke down on the phone to her. Her reaction startled me; she was so very concerned she wanted to send an ambulance to check on me. She began asking over and over if I was okay. I managed to compose myself again, hating how distressed I was making her. “I’ll be ok,” I promised her. “My children and their father will be home soon, so I’ll be alright.” Later that evening I received a call from one of the doctors at the surgery, the lady had requested they make sure I was ok. She was amazing, I believe she showed me the compassion that my father had failed to.

I should have felt joy, I should have felt happy, I should have felt so many emotions following the call from my dad, but instead, I felt nothing for the following weeks. I had waited for so many years for that confession and when it came, I realised it made no difference to my life whatsoever. Sure, it felt nice to not feel the need to justify myself anymore, but nothing could ever take the pain or the nightmares away.

I realised in that moment that I had been searching for years to find the means to a better life. It struck me that I had that strength inside me the whole time. Now was my time to pursue my healing journey.

***

I was seventeen years old when I met the father of my children. We lived eight blissful years together and made two beautiful baby boys. We shared a relationship to be envious of; we laughed together; cried together; and spent as many moments as we could, wrapped in each other’s arms. Unfortunately, trauma has a habit of creeping up on you from time to time and, although he was a very supportive man through most of our time together, he could not understand some of the trauma I had to live with. Ultimately, we went our separate ways. He did, however, encourage me to begin my healing journey and after meeting countless therapists I finally met my match.

G, you were my saving grace. You taught me to forgive myself, to love myself and showed me I was completely innocent. You listened to me and never judged me, not for one second. Meeting you saved me, I would not be here today, writing my story for the world to read without your inspiration. I will forever encourage survivors to seek help, there is no shame in admitting you need a little support from time to time.

I am also very grateful for my children; they may never know the strength they give me. After being told I may never bear a child, I just feel extra blessed to be their mother. Every morning I wake up and my children inspire me to get through the days, no matter how debilitating the nightmares were the previous night. I can rely on my babies to be consistent. They will be there needing me, ensuring that I get up and care for them.

I am happy to say that today I feel like a much stronger person. Do not get me wrong, the ‘self-destruct button’ always seems to be looming somewhere inside my mind, especially through periods of overwhelming emotion it begins to taunt me. I can still feel it willing me to go back to that lonely, terrifying place but since seeing it for what it is, I know I have the power over it now. It cannot consume me like it once did because I am a Survivor. I have left the ‘victim title’ so far behind me that I now possess the strength to conquer all my battles.

Today may feel like the end of the world but tomorrow is a new day, and this can be a gift to do something different; to change your life. As a childhood sexual abuse survivor, I know there will never be a time that I do not have to co-habit with my trauma. In my experience speaking with survivors like myself, I have realised that the self-destruct reaction can be a very common coping mechanism to this type of trauma. It is not a reaction anyone should feel ashamed about, instead do your best to recognise it for what it is. Realise you are reacting to some overwhelming traumatic experiences, and you will soon begin your own healing journey. I would like every survivor to understand that it is never too late to begin healing. Believe in yourself like no one else ever can and you will live the life you deserve.

Jo