Lie Dead

This is a long piece about my stepdad.

I will always love this piece of writing, because it cleared my stepdad away into a box.


I feel I’m at a stage in my life when I can write. I only remember in bits. Much of my life is full of gaps. Rape can be blanked out, to lead a “normal” life. I remember events without feelings. Remember feelings without knowing where they come from. I will remember as clear as I can inside gaps and silences.


I am drunk at a party. Round me others are chatting about sex. There is calm, sarcastic laughter. A voice said –

“Hole so small – like a 6-year-old.”

I freeze. Don’t show you’re scared. I try laughing, but my throat jams. Now it appears everything I hear is about child sex. I’m shaking.

“Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Inside me a child freezes. She won’t cry or speak. Just act dead. Act dead, and nothing matters.

I go to bed, but can’t sleep. I see my 6-year-old. I am crying. It cannot be true. That not me, just my imagination.

For 2 weeks, I keep getting flashbacks. Same feelings. Same events. She is saying – look at me. Don’t go away. I’m you. You are me.

See the dark. See you/me lying on the bed, we’re safe. We are sleeping. Everything is quiet. Remember being safe – so long ago.

You/me hear the door open. It is our stepdad. We not scared. We want to like him. He loves our mum, so we must love him. We will be friends.

My real doesn’t pull down my blankets. Doesn’t rub his hands on my chest. Doesn’t breathe like my stepdad. It is strange. He rubs over my nightie. I feel sick. I don’t look at him. Only he is smiling –

“I love you so much.”

I think his hand is touching my skin. Nothing has happened.

“I won’t hurt you – just lie still.”

His hand moves to my bum. I stop hearing. Only a weird breathing. He is over me, blocking out the light. His hand inside. I think I’m crying.

Suddenly he’s not in my room. It is silent again. Maybe I wasn’t awake. I was dreaming.

But, the bed is wet. I am crying. Mum will kill me, I wet my bed.

I drag the sheets off the bed, crumble them up.  I kick at them, then hide them under the bed.

Flashbacks came over and over. They are true. Each time, I got an outrageous pain in my vagina. I was raped when I was 6. I had no proof, only nightmares. I get pain as I write, talk or even think of my 6-year-old.

I believe her. Why would I make up such horror, in such detail. I re-discover her anger that hid out of fear.

I see how small she was. how she didn’t know danger. How she wanted to love her stepdad. How she wanted him to love her.

For the first time, I don’t feel guilty. He had no to violate her. She did nothing. For the first time, I feel pure hate. For the first time, I don’t care why he did it. For the first time, he is unimportant.

I see her and feel compassion. I want to hold her, tell her she is safe. I want to say it will get better.

But, I can’t lie to her. We both know it will get worse. All I can do is cry. I stopped crying when I was 6. Crying made no difference. Now, there are some small tears. Maybe we can learn to love each other.


I made the event invisible. Stay in a normal family life. I went to school. I fought with my sister. Watch TV, follow my football team.I would be normal. I would be happy.

Always following there was another girl. She was never happy. She didn’t care about anything. She felt nothing. Only dream of dying.

Sometimes she would freeze. Scared to breathe. Her stepdad heard her every breath.

Until I was 12, I imagined that I fitted in. Though nothing made sense, I pretended that I understood.

I disappeared into playing out in the streets. I never admitted to myself that I didn’t want to go home. No, I was happy. I had friends. I had known love. I was happy. I had no reason not to be.

But, always she would come. She was scared. She was making plans to die. She trashed everything.

When I wanted to play, she was clumsy. She would talk to my stepdad. She was angry. She was never nice. She was ruining my life.

She should be happy. And give me a break.

Looking back, nothing was normal. I lived in fear.

Looking back, I see a child on London streets at all hours. I see her stealing, as yet again she has missed meals. I see her only getting presents, after my stepdad had been in her bed.

Nothing was normal. Nothing was safe. I just wanted to fit in.

Pictures come back. Pictures of an unhappy child.

Picture this. A 9-year-old sitting by a window, staring down. She is measuring if she could fall head-long, seeing if she would die. She is calm. She does want to live with him. He will never leave her alone. It will never stop hurting. If she does fall, it would just her luck to injure herself, and not to die.

Picture this. A 7-year-old with meningitis. The fever talks –

“I hate him – I want him dead.”

But I’m happy. In the hospital, I’m safe. Saying to the nurse –

“I don’t want to go home.”

The fever talking.

Picture this. A 9-year-old standing outside her stepdad’s work in Soho. Her Mum is inside. She is alone. Mum said –

“I won’t be long.”

The girl doesn’t speak. Just stares out in hate. She hates all adults. Whispering –

“Bastards, bastards, bastards.”

She thinks she is safe. No-one can hurt her.

I could not stay happy. I would lose my temper easy. I had fights with friends. I would hurt them bad. I wanted to hurt my Dad’s son. When he smiled, I wanted him to cry. I wanted my Dad to hate me, so I hit his son.

I was getting sick. I hated myself. My Mum sent me to therapy. I was violent for no reason.

In therapy, my stepdad was not mentioned. My Mum spoke for me. Said that I had brain damage, that made me aggressive. How I made no effort to like her new husband. Was it because I was dyslexic.

I had my brain scanned. I answered many questions.

Do you love your Dad? – Yes. Do you love your Mum? – Yes. What do you think of your stepdad? – I hate him.

This was replayed. She is jealous of your new marriage. She said she was scared of her stepdad. She has a strong imagination.

I know I said I hated him. No-one listened. They looked into my head. They didn’t see that my bum was burning.

Yes, your child is ill. Given time, she will adjust.


The years between 6 to 12 are my desert years. I cannot see that child as me. I can’t see how she stayed alive. She was a scavenger, she loved living on the streets.  She would wandered round King’s Cross and Soho. She can’t see anything. All she knows is that she is not at home.

I took 2 buses from school. Often I just stayed in King’s Cross. Cars would slow down, I stared out.


Women would yell at me.

“Get out of here, kid.”

I’m no kid. I’m strong. I could kill. I’m safe. I’m just walking through. I’m not lost. I keep walking. Nothing will get in my way. I will bomb everything away.

Looking back, I see a damaged child walking the streets.She is so unsafe, she has lost awareness.As she crosses roads, she never looks. Once she was knocked down. She didn’t care, nothing mattered. She thought she was street-wise. She was never safe.

Always she avoided going home. She couldn’t remember why she didn’t go home. On the street, she was a blank. That was good.

In Soho, I stood outside my stepdad’s work. I am still. making wisecracks at men in cars. I know what they want. I pretend I don’t care. I don’t want their pity. They don’t see my face – only my bum. I don’t care – they won’t touch me. I don’t think how their eyes remind me of my stepdad/

A car stopped.

“Do you want some money.”

I know what he means.

“I’ve got a room. Food. Why not?”

I was tempted. I wanted to be away from home. I could do sex and get paid. It wouldn’t matter. There be no –

“I love you.”

I was tempted. I said –

“Fuck off – pervert.”

Sometimes, on the news, I see murders of street-wise kids. I always scream –

“They didn’t know anything.”

I thought I knew everything. Thought I was protected from all danger. Thought if I acted hard, that I would be safe. I was so wrong.

Looking back, I see I was lucky. I was felt up on buses – but I wasn’t raped, wasn’t murdered – I wasn’t hurt. Only my feelings. I was safe.


I was getting more and more separate from my family.They were not my family. I ignored the silence of my Mum. Forgot I had a sister and brother. I had no family. My Mum was given the wrong baby.

I didn’t think of how each time my stepdad looked at me, I felt sick. Maybe I was sick. Maybe I did have brain damage.

I was more and more on my own. I pretended I had friends, I imagined I would run away to America. I didn’t want reality. I would be dead soon. I wanted to be returned to my real family.

Sometimes in bed, I knew everything was wrong. I knew I was being hurt.

Picture this. My Mum reading me stories.

“I don’t like them.”

Pages turn. Stories of rapes, stories of children dying. I don’t understand the words. Manson – de Sade – Moors Murders. The lights go out. Images of cut up bodies go round and round my head. I decide to go blind.

Picture this. People round for a dinner party speaking of sex. What’s wrong with sex with children? We should be free to do as we wish. I’m pinned to my chair. Waiting- waiting. Only, no-one did anything.

Picture this, at 9 I begun to cut myself. I would miss meals. I just hid in cupboards, eating nuts. But, nothing was wrong.

Only I was out of control.

Looking back, I see a feral child. I stole from my Mum, so I could save to run away.

I wouldn’t eat meals, I would have arguments so I would be sent to my room. There I didn’t have to see my stepdad. I didn’t have to put up with him plying footsie. Whilst he acted the caring Dad.

I learnt to be on my own. I would survive without parents.

Only I was just a child, I had no power. My stepdad and Mum shown me that I had no control. They took me away from London – from my sister and my Dad, from school and friends. I was taken to the depths od Norfolk.

In Norfolk, I lost hope.


Norfolk was my stepdad’s territory. He had brought the cottage, he had planted the plants. It was in the middle of nowhere.  No cinema, no youth club, no police station. No roads to London – only another bloody field.

Often, I tried to walk to London, I wanted to get home. I would just keep walking. In my dreams, the roads go on and on. Everything looks the same. No buses, no train – no escape.

I would hitchhike, but there are no cars. So I just walk.

When I think of Norfolk, I feel terror. I don’t remember my stepdad having sex with me there. Just the constant dripping of mental abuse.

I was always cold in Norfolk. I always thought of death. I would cut myself with moldy sticks. I would dig holes to bury myself. I cover myself with leaves and dirt. Then he could not find me. I would be safe.

Looking out of my bedroom window, I see a graveyard. It is here half the village died during the Black Plague.

He is in my room. I am frozen on the bed, with blankets up to my chin. He can’t see my body.

He talks in a dull monotone.

“You know, children disappear all the time. Some run away – no-one finds them. Children just vanish. See, it would so easy to just kill a child. No-one would miss them. Children die, just like that, see.”

He laughs.

“Of course, I’m only joking.”

When I think of Norfolk, I see a place I could have been made to disappear.  I could have been buried in a field, in some graveyard. I could have been thrown away into a hedge where no-one passes by. I would have just disappeared. It would be sad. But then, I was always running away. I was always disturbed. I was always trouble. I was mentally ill.

In Norfolk, I knew terror. I found I was not strong. In Norfolk, I learnt to be invisible. There I felt my stepdad was in every part of me. I was just his toy. He decided not to kill me. He wanted me always to be there.  He could pick me up or leave me alone.

In Norfolk, I lost all hope. I just keep myself alive, I didn’t know what else to do.

Norfolk is full of gaps. I don’t remember physical abuse. I just know I was in constant fear.

Norfolk is a huge muddle. In my nightmares, I am always cold, always wanting to die. Sometimes, I see Norfolk on TV and I shake. Often I go blank. I can’t see Norfolk.

Picture this. A child smashing dead a rabbit with a cricket bat. She doesn’t cry, just screams –

“Die – bastard – die.”

She knows she is mad.

Picture this. She is on her bed, frozen. Listening for every footstep. She knows who is who. Relaxing,is her brother or sister. Frozen, she hears her stepdad. He stops by her bedroom window, looking down onto her bed. She pretends to be dead, nothing will matter. All she can feel is his eyes staring down into her. Always her breathing betrays her.

Picture this. A child staring blanking at magazines. They show bodies lying dead, with objects struck into them. They must be dead – no-one could stand that much pain. She sees dead children. She can’t think – only know, those children are her.

In Norfolk, my mind was twisted by images of torture. I thought my stepdad was going to kill me. He was just waiting for the right moment.

Looking back, I see how evil he was. He shown that death was the result of sex. So, when he did sexually abused me, he could do whatever he wanted, I could feel nothing. It meant nothing, for I was already dead.


When I was 12, we moved to Cambridge. I was with a family again. Only I was a zombie. I was with my  family till I was 19, but I had no existence. Nothing affected me. I try to appear ordinary. But all I could do was to keep breathing. I was dead. No pain could reach me. No violent words could reach me. I was not lonely. I didn’t need to hide away. I would be normal. I would be happy.

I would not go mad.

But always, she was hurting, crying, screaming in me. She just wanted to die.

She could not stop seeing. Seeing her Mum blank her as she enters the room. Seeing wetness on her bed – sometimes yellow, sometimes red. The wet is too real, she tidies it away. And, seeing his eyes piercing into her. Whether he is near her or not, she feels his eyes going up and down her body – stopping at her bum.

She could not stop feeling. Feeling pain in her bed, when he has left the room. Feeling headaches, until she thought she had a brain tumour.  She felt too much too often.

She could not stop tasting. Tasting sick as she remembers his penis in her mouth, jamming semen down her throat. Tasting the dryness of that throat, even after drinking water or orange juice. The dryness only stops when drinking alcohol.

She could not stop smelling. Smelling piss in her knickers, as he played footsie, smiling as he was eating. Smelling sweat, when the room was cold.

And she couldn’t stop hearing.  Hearing his footsteps in her room. How they stopped. Hearing him looking round – just waiting. Waiting. Hearing –

“I won’t ever hurt you. I love you.”

“It only hurts if you move.”

No, she couldn’t be dead, not  with all her senses exploding. Why couldn’t she just be a robot.


When I was in Cambridge, my stepdad gradually became more and more sexual to me. He did it cleverly, he would be “gentle”, and increased the abuse. This got me confused, for I had seen so much violent porn. Everything became unreal. I decided it was not happening. It was just affection.

It was not real, as he rubbed my legs during dinner. It was an accident, when his hand went into my knickers, his fingers making circles in my cunt. It was not happening.

It was not real, when he kissed me, his tongue suffocating me. He would smile, especially as he kissed in front of others.

It was not real, that I always felt naked in front of him. I thought all my clothes shown was where he could touch me. I always felt I was his toy. This was not real. It could be real.

Between 12 to 14, I cannot remember much. I was still in shock after Norfolk. I was in constant fear. I tried to be good, so there would be no reason to murder me.

Only, I didn’t understand the rules of being good. Nothing I did pleased my Mum and stepdad. I was always wrong. It was ny fault that I was hurting. It was my fault for I never said no.

“If you don’t say no, you must really want it.”

I would lie in my bedroom. I would place my toy soldiers with their guns aimed at the door. They would protect me. They would kill him.

But , always he would kick them away.

“You’re a funny girl, playing with boy’s toys.”

Their grenades did nothing, as he reached for my tits, rubbing his hand over my cunt. They did nothing – just watched.

When he went, I bit their heads off, melted them with matches, throw them out of the window. They were useless, useless, useless.

At 14, my stepdad started to have baths with me.  Each Friday, round about 6, we had a bath. I was a robot. It was the beginning the end, I was accepting that. It was all that I deserved.

On Fridays, I was always sick. I was sick from Wednesdays onwards. Many Fridays, I would run away. I would stay out all night. I wandered the streets. I could see or hear. Friday did not exist.

I learnt to avoid home, I avoided school. I was a loner. I went to clubs, looking for danger. I chose to be with violent men. Maybe they would kill me. I didn’t care about my safety. I did not matter.

If i was at home on Fridays, it was a ritual. When children’s TV was over, he run the bath. I would get undressed as he watched. I sit in the bath – waiting. He got in. He would wash me inside. His fingers cleaning out my cunt. He looked at the wall. He put his penis into my hand.

“Wash it.”

I would rub it feebly, I would not think, just rub. It hardened. I refused to listen to his jabbering breathing. This is no happening. It is nothing.

Suddenly, he is out of the bath. He went to the toilet.

After the bath, life went on as normal. We had supper. We were a happy family.

I sat, eating flesh. I couldn’t speak, just eat. I sit up straight, not moving. I try to look normal. I would be happy. There is no past, just this moment, with my family.

But the food is hard to swallow. In each mouthful, I taste his sperm. I breathed through my ears.

I am turning into ice. I must look normal.


Life was becoming hellish. I made myself into a machine. I thrown away all feelings.

I had no fear, pain, anger or confusion. If I had felt them, I would have given up, I may have died. I put all the violence done to me into a box. Now, those feelings are coming back. Now, I can face my teenager. I can show her that I love her. I will listen and believe her.

I spent less and less time at home, especially at weekends. I stay with friends who hated their homes. We just stayed out, not saying why.

I go out later and later. Outside, I felt safe. If stuff happened to me – I knew it was my fault.

When I was 14, I went to clubs. I was looking for danger.

The owners of the clubs weren’t worried about my age, as long as I had money.

Young flesh bring in more customers.

I went to a club that had a bad reputation for violent men. They would say –

“I love you.”

As they pushed onto the bed, screwing me. I thought, kill me, please, kill me. Give me what I want.

It was some escape. I went for I was bad. I deserved pain. I was a whore.

I would let myself see what was happening to me. As I lie in the men’s beds, as they hit me, as they poke and squeeze me – I became a corpse.


I still went to school. I couldn’t take anything in. At school, I was teased for 4 years. School was the same as home. I had no rest. I must be a bad person, why else would everyone hate me so much.

I was tired of life. I would not be nice anymore. I wanted to be invisible.

In class, I was too visible. I hated coz I was from London, hated for being a snob. Hated coz I was dyslexic, so I was stupid. Hated coz I liked English and History. I could not be invisible. Out of the class, I was waited for.

Girls waited in corridors. They hid behind coats. They would push me.

“Your Mum’s a slut.”

“You’re mental.”

Words went over and over me. Words copying my life. I knew I was mental , for why else was all this shit happening to me. I wanted a safe space. The only safe space was my bedroom, only for a short time.

I sit in my bedroom, cutting my arms. This was private. I saw the blood, and knew no-one could hurt me as much as I could hurt myself.

Until I was 17, life was pointless. I acted the delinquent, but didn’t understand the role.

It was being with violent men. Not caring if I lived or died. As they raped me, they did not speak. They would not look at my face. Sometimes the pain would get through my frozen body. All I could think – I deserve this, coz I’m so bad.

I was bad coz  I stopped going to school. Instead I wandered the streets not knowing what I was doing. I walked until I was tired. I would go into pubs. I never tasted the drink. I just waited for men to pick me up.  For I was bad.

Sometimes, I found myself standing on train bridges. Waiting for a train to cut me in half. Sometimes, I sat in alleys cutting at my wrists. Sometimes, I got drunk and OD. After I still walked, I would not faint. I could never die. I was too bad to die.

I could not do my homework, my stepdad is standing over me, He is grasping my tit, saying –

“Don’t know why you bother, you’re too stupid.”

Sometimes he ripped up my books. If he didn’t, I did it myself. It was pointless working.

At school, I was asked about my homework. I just run out of school. I prefer to seen as stupid or mad, than to say a reason.

One teacher said –

“How come, when you are at school, you are clever. Then your homework so awful.”

If had told, would she of listen. How when I do my homework, I’m sick in every cell of my body. How I hate being clever, for it doesn’t stop the hurting.  Anyhow, I’m not clever enough to kill myself.

I learnt to hide everything. I hid emotions. I tried to be cold. I didn’t want anyone to know me. Always hearing my stepdad =

“I know you better than you know yourself.”

I needed something to belong to me. I chose cutting. I watch the blood. This was mine.

I heard his footsteps on the stairs. I hide under the bed. I shut off the lights. I didn’t move. I would be scared, only I was dead.

Always, he would find me, laughing –

“You’re crap at hiding.”


My stepdad was an advertising director in London. He was only home at weekends. But his presence poisoned my every day. I felt I was never out of his mind. I had to be careful all the time, or he would punish me. I thought if i acted hard, he would be disgusted by me. I wanted him to leave me alone, but I didn’t know how to stop him.

Looking back, I see how desperate I was. I didn’t understand the rules. The rules were always changed. Whatever I did, nothing would stop him. He chased me. I was his little whore. I was abused when I was good,  I was his little princess.

My stepdad grow tired of just having baths. He would take me on walks, where he molested me in a light-heartened way. It was nothing. He would do as he liked. I belonged to him.

He was tired of just seeing me in Cambridge. He wanted me in London. When I was 17, I begun to go/

I went by train. As the train moved, I became a corpse.

Between 17 and 21, I went to London. There he would always abuse me. But always, I went in hope. He always lied, saying he help to get on with my Mum. I always thought he would not abuse me. I thought we would just talk. Always, I went knowing I was stupid. I thought he would change.

As I walked to his work, I became his captive. I always waited for him. He would watch me. Saying how proud he was to be my stepdad, laughing –

“Isn’t she sexy. I could fuck myself.”

I am silent. Others just laugh, he is their boss.

We go back to his flat, we just chat, I watch TV. He takes me to some Italian restaurant. He jokes –

“Do you like my young mistress.”

The waiters smile. I drink more and more. He has stopped drinking. He places his hand on my leg. It always the same. Always the same.

Back at his flat, I am dead. I just focus on the TV. I know to be still. His hand goes slowly over my skin. The TV keeps disappearing. I say nothing as I think I am going blind. I think I am scared. His hand reaches into me. He calls me other women’s names. He never said my name. As he finger-fucks me, he is thinking of others. I am nothing to him.

He turns me onto my back, he does oral sex on me. His beard scrapes inside me. I say nothing. I not angry. I don’t cry. I don’t feel. I’m a robot.

He won’t let me touch him. I am not allowed to move. He just makes me cum.

“See, that’s what you wanted.”

He pushes me off the bed.

“Look what you made me do. Whore.”

Looking back, I can see how he brainwashed me. I did anything I was told to do. I forgot the danger and pain. I had no self-respect. All I had was self-hate.

I went blindly into danger. I thought I wanted it. But there another part of me crying.

I felt grief. I try to block it out. I tried to die.

I getting more and more split. My stepdad had become my existence.

At 19, I left home, but I still went to him when he asked. He was in my head.

I went with violent men. I got drunk. I only know that I existed when I was hurting. I give my body no rest. I try not to sleep. I eat trash food, i try not to eat. I would walk and walk. I could not stop. If I was still, I would die.


I was getting more and more alienated. But, somewhere inside, was a strong life force. I know there was more than pain, humiliation and thoughts of suicide. I begun to know what was happening was wrong. I just didn’t know how to stop it.

I went into voluntary work. I felt good at work. There I was liked. I was not used. I found I was good at listening. I could stand up for others. I like being a crisis, and something would done about it.

I listen to other women’s stories, and saw my stepdad n their words.  I heard his lies.

“I will always own you.”

“I only do this coz I love you.”

“It because you’re mad. You deserve it.”

I saw he was a criminal.

I didn’t blame myself. I was breaking down. I was seeing how planned his abuse was. How calm he was.

I remember his control. How he rubbed me slowly. How he watched my eyes. He was so calm. once, he was on top of me. I thought he was going out of control. I thought he would penetrate me.

I thought rape me, you bastard. Then I will shop you. Rape me, then I can kill you.

He was on top of me. His penis was rubbing my clitoris and cervix. Then he stopped. He was calm. Pushed me away.

“Look, bitch, you made me lose control.”

I was leading a double life. Outside work, I lived in madness. I was with men who treated me like dirt.

I had to stop. I had to not be a machine for men to poke.

I didn’t have the strength to leave my stepdad.  The more I saw him, the more I hated him.

I said no to going to London, he just laughed.

I wrote him a letter.

“You are a criminal. I am not your sex-toy. If you touch me again, I will call the police. I have had enough. So you had better leave me alone.”

I thought it would work. It backfired, for he give to my Mum. He said he had abused me occasionally. Only since I was 17. He said he could not help himself, he was depressed. He said he had penetrated me, but he had been drunk. Only he didn’t drink much. He said that I had forced myself onto him.

My Mum phoned –

“Slut. Are you trying to wreck my marriage.”

“Can’t you see he’s ill. Don’t you care. “

My Mum didn’t speak to me for 3 years.

That was devastating, but I was free from my stepdad. I wouldn’t see him. I wouldn’t let him near me. I just stare at him with hate.

He was getting scared of me. He could not use me anymore. His toy was out of control. I saw his fear. He thought I would violent to him. He could not understand.

1 Christmas, he thought I was still his toy. All day he tried to get me alone. I avoided him. I didn’t talk to him. I could se my Mum‘s anger..

I was washing up. I was alone. I was afraid, I was alone in his house. I couldn’t be strong. I was listening to every noise in the house. I heard his footsteps.

He was behind me. I heard his breathing. I am beginning to freeze. I’m furious. I keep washing up.

His breathe is on my neck.

“I’ve miss you so much.”

His hand is going down my shirt.He’s grabbing my tits.He puts his legs onto my cunt.

Suddenly, I have a cold anger. There is no way I will let him in me again. He is nothing now. I reach into the water, find a carving knife. I hold it to his throat.

“Just leave me alone.”

I say calmly.

I see he is shaking.  he is wide-eyed with fear. He is frozen. I laugh.

My sister comes in, sees his fear.

“Everything alright.”

I say –

“Everything is fine.”


It took several years to end having violent from other men. But, I had changed, for I knew that I didn’t deserve the violence. I was beginning to think I deserved a future. I was beginning to think I was capable of being good.

I am a long way from recovering. I do not hide from my past. For me, the hardest part is knowing there will be no justice. My stepdad will never feel my pain and desperation. He will always believe that he did nothing wrong. He will die believing nothing much happened. That is hard to live with.  Now, I have no connection with him. So it doesn’t matter if he refuses to change.

This piece of writing is a reward to my child and teenager. I’m rewarding their life force – that was there even when they were desperate to die. I’m rewarding their bravery – which was there even when they wanted to run away and hide. I write so they can cry.  Then we can feel compassion for so much pain. I write so the guilt will go. I write to show who is to blame. I write to show my stepdad did not destroy my mind.

I write because he didn’t make me go mad.        

4 responses to “Lie Dead

  1. First of all, Rebecca, you are incredibly brave and courageous for writing this. I’ve started to chronicle the shit I went through although I don’t know if I will ever post it.
    ‘Always she avoided going home. She couldn’t remember why she didn’t go home. On the street, she was a blank. That was good.’
    this reminds me of all those times i would skip school and class because of the abuse i suffered at the hands of the girls i went to school with.

    ‘I spent less and less time at home, especially at weekends. I stay with friends who hated their homes. We just stayed out, not saying why.

    I go out later and later. Outside, I felt safe. If stuff happened to me – I knew it was my fault.

    When I was 14, I went to clubs. I was looking for danger.’

    this is so fucking true.

    ‘The owners of the clubs weren’t worried about my age, as long as I had money.

    Young flesh bring in more customers.’

    the owner of the club where my rapist used to dj had this exact same attitude. he knew i was 14 and that he was 20 but he didnt care because i always had drugs and money for booze to put into his pocket.
    those fucking pigs.

    ‘In class, I was too visible. I hated coz I was from London, hated for being a snob. Hated coz I was dyslexic, so I was stupid. Hated coz I liked English and History. I could not be invisible. Out of the class, I was waited for.

    Girls waited in corridors. They hid behind coats. They would push me.

    “Your Mum’s a slut.”

    “You’re mental.”

    Words went over and over me. Words copying my life. I knew I was mental , for why else was all this shit happening to me. I wanted a safe space. The only safe space was my bedroom, only for a short time.

    I sit in my bedroom, cutting my arms. This was private. I saw the blood, and knew no-one could hurt me as much as I could hurt myself.’
    ‘I needed something to belong to me. I chose cutting. I watch the blood. This was mine.’

    “I write so the guilt will go. I write to show who is to blame. I write to show my stepdad did not destroy my mind.

    I write because he didn’t make me go mad.”
    this feels so real and true to my own experiences. especially the part about the hurting self.
    i really don’t know what to say, i feel like my life is echoing yours in so many respects, or has, but i understand that rage you must feel.

    everyone i know excepts me to have already recovered, i keep saying, it’s not even been two years since the last time i was raped. i don’t know if i ever will recover, but the hope in me says that there is enough goodness in this world to help you and me both get better eventually.


  2. Hi Rebecca. I just read this because Miep reblogged it and it came up in my WordPress reader. I’m so sorry this happened to you. I can’t possibly say anything that will take the pain away but I thought I’d leave a note here and say I read this and I feel rage on your behalf. I hope your stepdad is rotting in hell.


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