The Step Child (33 page)

I don’t even know what I honestly hope the answers to those questions are.

LIKE EVERYONE, I HAVE
my bad days. Sometimes I don’t know why; sometimes I don’t even know what I’m feeling. At other times, I know exactly what’s going on, what the questions are, where I feel the gaps still exist.

There is so much of my childhood that I have no words to describe, and there are other parts which I can only verbalise and analyse as an adult. That little girl who was me just couldn’t work out what was happening in the way an adult would. I know the words now. I know the consequences. I can apply morality and judgement and principles to all of this. And that is what hurts and angers me so much.

As a grown-up, I can’t make sense of how such damage can be voluntarily inflicted on a child. How can an adult choose to do these things? What makes a person decide that she will bring men to the family home to abuse her stepdaughter? What makes a woman send that child to strange men for her starved body to be attacked? What makes those men – fathers, brothers, grandfathers – believe it is permissible, justifiable, to rape a child? How can these perfectly ordinary citizens go about their business on a day-to-day basis, knowing what they have done and what they continue to want to do? How do abusers actually
deal with the fact that their own needs, their own so-called desires, mean that children will be living their own personal hells?

It is the adult who knows what they are doing, who knows the words and the language for what is going on. I firmly believe that nothing an adult goes through as a child excuses them continuing the cycle of abuse which so many choose. And it is a choice, let’s make that quite clear. If those who believe the cycle cannot be broken are right, what does that say about me? All I can say in my defence is that I know the person I am. I haven’t been broken. I haven’t been changed into some monster who cannot escape her past. If I was nothing more than a victim of what went before, my own children – my flesh and blood – would now be living the nightmare I endured. At no point was that ever an option. I have to say to those who think we victims cannot escape, to those who think that continuing abuse can be explained away by past horrors, that at no point did I have to fight any desire to turn into an abuser.

When I looked at my babies, when I raised my children, all I felt was love and a desperate need to protect them. They are not wrapped in cotton wool, and never have been. For me, the measurement of my success as a mother has been that my children are that word we are all scared of using these days – they are ‘normal’. They laugh, they cry, they play, they have dreams. They have good times and bad times, but there is nothing that would ever stop me from doing absolutely everything in my power to give them a safe haven. And I do have that power. I know that now. It has taken me a while to get there, and my children have helped me on the journey, but I have never been a sacrificial lamb to my own history. Those who claim that all ‘survivors’ spend their time either fighting, or succumbing to, their pasts insult all of us who know differently.

My past won’t go away. I am no different to anyone else in the sense that it made me who I am – the irony being that what I endured was so awful that it took parts of me away at the same
time as it built me up. One of the reasons I needed to write this book was to make sense of that strange combination. How could something so bad not have broken me entirely?

Anyone who has experienced abuse as a child will process it in their own way – I never wanted this to be a self-help manual for survivors. Within my own family, different people have different stories to tell and they must find their own way, their own peace. But I know that the way forward for me was to tell my story – because, finally, I know that it is
mine
. What I went through was caused by others, by their choices, by their depravities, but the eventual culmination of it all is
me
. I have needed to possess that in order to reach any sort of closure with my past, and I know that now is the time to do it.

This is the right thing for me. I knew absolutely that I would never get the inner peace I have sought for so long unless I told my story – only the time and the way of doing it had to be right. That ring on the doorbell on that fateful day when my past truly came back to me, it was an opportunity – not one I willingly went after at the time, but one I have chosen to follow through. The trial afforded me the opportunity to say certain things, but any court process has its own format which will allow victims only a certain degree of voice. However, I am grateful both for the opportunity to say what I did at that time and in the period leading up to the trial, even if it did only scratch the surface. Going beyond that surface has opened up so much more, so many wounds, so many bad memories. At this point, I truly believe that the more we speak about these things – the more we open up to the realities of some children’s lives – the more we will move towards attitudinal change.

What happened to me was taboo. It went on behind the closed doors of a private home, but the collusion was deeper. I am still incredulous that so many people, so many authorities, did nothing, did not see, did not hear. Although many adults were involved in my life, I know of no one who ever did anything
about my plight. There were so many who could have acted – Barnardo’s, social workers, teachers, neighbours – and who could have changed this story, but who made their own choices. The choice to do nothing.

No child should go through what I did. If, by telling my story, I can make one person think about what they can do to help a child, I have achieved something. When I was a child, there came a point when it was beyond my wildest dreams that anyone would ever pay heed to me, let alone listen to my story. Finally, someone did. But it was too little, too late.

I have spent my adult life trying to take myself away from my own childhood. Now, in my mid-40s, I desperately want to be rid of the heavy heart, anxieties and insecurities which I inherited from the abuse doled out to me by my stepmother. I’ve spent most of my adult life with my past buried as deep as I could possibly shove it. Now, as an adult, I believe in fairness and in balance. It’s time to write my own ending, even if it has taken me this long to find any sort of peace. The little girl without the voice has finally found that she can shout.

Rearing my children to become happy, centred individuals has been the main focus of much of my adult life, coupled with the ongoing nurturing of my career as an artist. Writing this book meant exposing my soul and bringing into the light the darkness of the abuse I suffered. I had to think long and hard about doing that. I am leaving a legacy here – and such a thing cannot be undertaken lightly. My children can now read my story without distortion, but what will it do to them and to my relationship with them? How much do any of our children truly know of us? We are their mothers and fathers; we should be their rocks and their safety nets. My children have had those things, but now their mother has told her story, I have had to consider how that will impact on them. Will they want to know all of my story? Will it alter how they view me? Will it change how they act as adults and future parents?

It was not easy for me to assent to an investigation into my childhood which would lead to the prosecution of my stepmother. However, I thought that if I could achieve some form of catharsis and an understanding of why, despite being relatively happy, I suffered from inexplicable guilt, fear and anxiety, then the whole process would be worth it. The reality, churning up the past, has been difficult to the point of unbearable at times. The pain has resonated through my life, stopping me in my tracks. At times I have been unable to function. For two years I was sick every morning and crippled with anxiety. I couldn’t sleep for fear of nightmares. My relationship with my new husband was tested to the limit, and I had to explain as well as I could to my children what had gone on.

So why did I do it? As I have said before, it was necessary for me to tell my story, if only for the purpose of giving a voice to the child I was. A voice that should have been heard all those years ago. I know my story is shocking but for me it was reality – a reality I lived through with no choice. There have been a number of books in recent years which have told of the personal experiences of others who were abused in some way; in many ways that is heartening. However, if all that we have managed to do is to develop a new form of ‘entertainment’, it has all been for nothing.

I don’t know if this book will touch anyone else in any way but it is my hope that there may be some lessons to be learned. I not only survived heinous abuse but went on to become a success in my own right. I pride myself on my parenting skills and rejoice in my talent. I am blessed to have the love and support of some very fine and respected people, without whose caring I could not have found the courage to travel this journey.

I believe if we have a story to tell then it should be told. Although mine is not a pleasant one, I hope it will bring encouragement to others. I have achieved my parenting goals, to rear my children to be loved, respected, valued and individual
without fear, remorse or guilt. I have successfully nurtured my artistic talent enough to enable me to enjoy a career from something I love. I also have valued, caring friendships based on love, trust and respect. These are my successes. They show my stepmother that she did not break me. They are my
raison d’être
.

My story should also bring a warning of how we must all, as adults, be vigilant. Even if that means risking retribution by sticking our necks out to protect any child whose welfare we are in any way concerned about, we must do it.

Most importantly, telling this story allows me to close those chapters in my life. I don’t want to live in the shadow of these memories for a moment longer. I want, need and deserve the opportunity to find the inner peace I have always known could be mine.

After reading this, you may be shocked at the behaviour and actions of this woman, this Helen Ford, and how others also took advantage of such an appalling situation. As a mother I will never, ever understand her actions – but the important thing is that I no longer fear her. And I now know that I can live with the understanding that I was not to blame for her actions.

For me, this is not just about what was done to that child all those years ago, but the long-term effects of growing up with that history. It is also about you, the reader. You chose to pick up this book and read it to this point, and I am curious to know what you’re thinking. Has it been a ‘good read’? Did you ‘enjoy’ it? Perhaps you counted your blessings at various points, or perhaps it reminded you of something which you suffered. Maybe you are even an abuser yourself – there is a possibility that you bought this book because you hoped to find pleasure in the tale of a wrecked young life. You may have been looking for a sexual thrill or for some handy hints about how to keep your own perversions hidden or make them more successful. There is also a chance that you don’t believe a word of what I say. You may have checked the Internet to see whether Helen Ford really was
convicted, whether she even existed, and seeing that the case was real, you may still want to deny it all.

I think I can understand all of those reactions because I have considered many of the responses to this story while revisiting it. No matter which camp you fall into, I would like you to remember one thing.

I had to learn how to hug.

I didn’t know how.

You don’t have to believe every word that has been written here – I know it’s all true, but you will have your own reason behind your interpretation of it. But please think about what I have just said. I didn’t know how to hug someone. I didn’t know how to have that natural, innocent, basic contact. Is that a remnant of a normal childhood? Is that a consequence of a natural upbringing?

For those who love me, I wish to convey not only my story but the complexity of being me. I want them all to know how vital their role has been in my development as an adult through the love and support they have offered. I want to appeal to everyone else that they always think of the child at the centre of any story. Children have a right to be loved, valued, respected, cared for, heard, nurtured and fed.

There may be people who feel uncomfortable at some of the content of this book, for reasons only they will know. But whoever you are, I ask that you consider your role in the life of any child with whom you come into contact. It is terrifying to think how much power we have over children and how easy it can be to abuse that power. The strongest in any society are the ones who put the rights of children first. The weakest, the most pathetic, the most worthy of condemnation, are those who decide that their needs take precedence over those rights.