Escaping the Darkness

by Sarah Preston

  When the words came I was like a desperate child with news of something exciting happening, who was eager to tell anyone who would listen.

  ‘I was abused sexually when I was a girl, when I was eleven, by a friend of my Mum and Dad’s, by my Dad when I was twelve and almost by a neighbour too when I was thirteen. It lasted for four years with the friend of Mum and Dad’s and happened three times with my dad. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I managed to hide it away but then I saw Bill, Mum’s friend, a little while ago in town. And now I’m having terrible dreams that I can’t stop. All those memories are new again. I feel like I am back in that terrible room with him standing over me and I’m trapped and can’t escape.’

  I started to cry.

  Tears were the one thing that I could never stop. They flooded down my face. Someone once told me I could quite easily fill a bath when I cried, and today I felt like it was a definite possibility.

  I looked up at Dr Tranor: Keith. I was wondering if he had made any sense of my blurted blubberings, which had spilled out from me so fast without drawing a breath that they made me feel sick! He had a look of despair on his face. I could see his tears starting to form, and I saw one trickle down his cheek.

  He quickly wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, trying to keep a sense of professional calmness about him, a calmness that he wanted to pass on to me. He leant over and gave me a small hug. I felt so relieved that finally I had gained enough strength and courage to tell someone other than Sam about my abuse.

  I still believed that everything that had happened to me was my fault, that I was to blame. Keith started talking to me slowly. I listened, drying my eyes on the tissues he had passed to me a few moments ago. ‘Sarah,’ he began gently. ‘Try not to worry. I know you are worried, but I can put you in touch with someone who can help you. She’s based at the Cedars Child Development Centre. Do you know where that is?’

  ‘Is it just a little further down Parsons Lane?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. The lady I’m going to ring is called Bess Meyer. She’s really good and this is her field of expertise. She does a lot of work with abused kids.’

  ‘But isn’t it different? After all, I’m not a child I’m an adult. Will she be able to help me?’

  ‘Yes, she can Sarah. She’ll know more about how you feel and the emotions you’re going through. The only difference between you and a child is that you have kept them hidden for a long time, and it’s only now that they are starting to surface.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’ll call her once surgery is over and she’ll be in touch with you as soon as she can. You shouldn’t have to wait too long.’

  As I rose to leave his room, he looked at me, gave me one of his famous everything’s-fine-now smiles and said everything would be okay. His face gave some of his feelings away; I knew he was shocked by what he had heard, even though he must have heard the same words lots of times before in his profession. He looked so helpless that day, desperate to do more, but he knew he had to go through all the protocol that his work demanded. But I knew he was doing enough. I was glad of his help. I was relieved that at last I could speak out, even if it had only been for a short time.

  This was probably the hardest thing I had ever done in my life, apart from when I told Sam. Even giving birth to five babies was a walk in the park compared to speaking out about the abuse I had been subjected to as a young girl. I think if I could have chosen which of those things I had to do, I would have chosen childbirth every time rather than having to confess to someone other than Sam that I had been abused. Giving birth was certainly much easier. The only problem is – if I had been given such a choice – I’d have probably ended up with fifty babies instead of five.

  Leaving Dr Tranor’s room I felt relieved yet anxious. Relieved I had told someone else other than Sam, but extremely anxious that someone other than my husband knew. Now I had to wait again. I didn’t know how the session with Bess would go but inside I knew this was perhaps a huge turning point, the first day of the rest of a life without secrets. At last I was speaking out to someone else. I knew help was on its way, yet the words I had spoken to Dr Tranor that day felt as if they were inconsequential and without true meaning.

  They were words that had no real importance attached to them until I saw Bess and spoke them again. Then, and only then, would my statements become real. The words would be given a chance, an opportunity, to escape from out of the box I had sealed them in. They would be out there in the open, ready, waiting patiently to haunt me some more.

  As I walked home through the park from Dr Tranor’s surgery, the paths were slowly drying after the latest shower. The air felt warm and clean around me, which eased the pain of the headache that had started to take hold. I felt a little better about what lay in front of me. The next step would be talking to Bess, a stranger, about all of my past and I knew that wouldn’t be easy. I would have to recall the things, all the terrible details of everything Bill had done to me, and I wasn’t sure how well I would be able to cope with that. I had never met Bess. I knew nothing about her. The only things I knew were the things Keith (Dr Tranor) had told me about her. He had said she was a nice lady in her late forties, and she had twenty years’ experience of dealing with similar matters.

  I began to feel apprehensive about our meeting, which was ridiculous, especially when I didn’t know how long it would actually be before I saw her. I told myself I was being silly. This woman was going to help me, she would give me solutions, help me find strategies and develop methods with me that I could use to combat my fears. For a few moments, I actually felt a little better and knew deep inside that once all this was truly out in the open, and with the right kind of help, I could begin the healing process. That was of course if there was anything out there that would heal what I had been through.

  As I crossed the road and entered the estate, I noticed Maria was out in her garden. She waved when she saw me and invited me in for a cup of tea. We sat talking and drinking tea for the next half hour, gently letting those carefree thirty minutes slip away until it was time to pick up the children from the playgroup. I instantly felt my spirits lifted. Maria always made me feel better because she was just that kind of person: bubbly and with infectious good humour. I was glad to have her as my friend, but even though we had become close, I still couldn’t face telling her about my past and the things that had happened to me as a child. It was still a secret: my secret. I knew that if I had plucked up courage to talk to Maria about the past then it would have been all right. She would probably have been the best kind of counsellor I could ever have wished for. But inside I felt so embarrassed, and even though I had shared the shocking news of my abuse with Keith, my doctor, I still continued to feel dirty, ashamed and guilty. These feelings were something I really had problems talking about. I had always dreaded what people would think about me if they found out. What would their reactions be? After all I was Sarah, the woman they knew.

  In their eyes I wasn’t the other Sarah, the Sarah who had been abused and used.

  How would they all see me after I told them?

  Chapter Six

  AS THE WEEK continued to unfold, I tried not to think about the forthcoming meeting that would soon be arranged with Bess. I kept myself active and threw myself into a mad, house-cleaning frenzy, trying desperately to keep myself busy for every hour of the day. It was June now and when I wasn’t busy in the house I spent time in the garden. I loved being outdoors, especially when new plants were unfolding before my eyes, springing into life to give me another season of deliciously scented pleasure. I had decided to grow some sweet peas this year and they were busy scrambling to find their way up the netting on the fence, each one racing against the other for the best spot to catch each new ray of sunshine. If only my path was that easily mapped out, I would have found it so much easier. Instead, mine was filled with anxiety, dread and fear of how people would react to this shocking news if – and when – I ever gained enough co
urage to tell those who mattered to me.

  By Friday the waiting was proving to be too much for me. Every time the phone rang, I jumped. It had been a particularly busy morning, and it was one of those days when the phone had never stopped ringing. Sam had called twice, my mother three times and Maria also phoned to see if I wanted to call in for a coffee once the afternoon playgroup session had started. As I put the receiver down, the darn thing sprang into life again with its desperate, incessant ring sounding louder than ever, demanding attention with each agitated, shrill tone. As I lifted up the receiver and put it to my ear, this unfamiliar cheery voice on the other end said:

  ‘Hello, is that Sarah Preston?’

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘Hi there. My name is Bess Meyer, your doctor asked me if I would contact you so we could chat.’

  My immediate thought was one of relief. Talking over the phone, that’s good; at least I wouldn’t have to face anyone new. However, I was quickly brought back to reality by Bess’s next words:

  ‘Can I call on Monday to see you, at about ten thirty, will that be okay?’

  ‘Yes that’s fine, I’ll be here.’ I told her.

  ‘Can you just tell me whereabouts you are, Sarah? I’m not sure if I know Ashleigh all that well.’

  I gave Bess clear, precise directions over the next few minutes, speaking slowly while she noted them down. Once I finished, she repeated them to me, making sure she hadn’t missed anything. Afterwards she said goodbye, and once more the phone sat in uninterrupted silence, redundant at last.

  As I sat on the settee thinking about Monday, I felt a little shaky. My stomach churned with nervousness and I found myself rushing to the loo because of all the anxiety and unease I felt deep inside. I hoped that my nerves would ease as quickly as the stress had begun; I didn’t want to feel like this for the whole of the weekend.

  Before I knew it, the weekend was over. Sam was once more starting another week of work and the boys were all back at school. It had been a particularly hectic morning because we were all up late the night before. Regardless of this, Sam left for work on time and I was back from taking the boys to school. It was 9.15, and in the hour that followed, the tidying up had been done and I just had to put Timothy in his cot for a nap. I had even managed to get some washing in the machine with a quarter of an hour to spare before Beth’s arrival. Over the next few minutes the house was filled with the sound of the washing machine groaning at me whilst it was whirring into action; deep inside, that machine knew it was another day of hard work once again. I mean when did the washing machine ever not go on in this house? The only time it wasn’t contributing to the noises in our home was when it was broken.

  Then I looked at the clock: 10.20. Where had those last fifteen minutes gone? It was only a short time later that the bell rang. I looked out of the window. There was a dark blue car parked further down the road, about five or six down from my house. As I glanced round from the road to the front door, a woman was standing there with a file of papers held under her arm. This must be her – this must be Bess.

  I quickly looked in the mirror: my hair needed combing. I looked like I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. Oh well, it was too late now, this was it. I opened the door.

  ‘Hi,’ she said cheerily, ‘I’m Bess.’

  ‘Hello, pleased to meet you, I’m Sarah,’ I replied. ‘Would you like to come through?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  As she came in, I pushed open the lounge door. I don’t know why I did that, just force of habit I suppose, and after all, there was no chance of going through the wrong door because this was the only one in my tiny hallway.

  Once I’d closed the front door, I went into the lounge to join Bess. She was standing in the middle of the room, waiting for an indication of where she should sit.

  ‘Would you like to sit down?’ I asked.

  She momentarily looked at the chairs and settee. ‘All right here?’ she asked, pointing to the settee.

  ‘Yes.’

  She settled herself on the settee and laid out her diary and some other papers she had brought with her as I sat on Sam’s chair opposite her.

  ‘Would you like a tea or coffee?’ I asked her.

  ‘Oh coffee would be lovely.’

  ‘How do you want it?’

  ‘Black, no sugar please.’

  I went into the kitchen and made Bess a cup of coffee and a cup of tea for me. A few minutes later I was back in the lounge. As I placed the drinks on the little table between the settee and the chair, Bess looked up and spoke:

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Where shall we start?’

  She smiled reassuringly at me to begin.

  I didn’t know what to say at first. I just went very quiet, returning to the safe world that was locked inside my head, surrounded by all the things that were secure and familiar to me. Talking to this stranger about the abuse I had been subjected to would probably be one of the biggest hurdles I would ever face. It all seemed so scary, so wrong. Even being here, even though this was my own home, something felt wrong. I was trying to tell someone else about my ordeal, which even now still felt like a betrayal, especially after so much time had passed since it all ended and Bill’s warnings about not telling anyone were first aired. I was now a grown woman and I had a choice to finally speak out. The problem was I was still unsure how to do it. I became a child again. I know very few minutes had passed while I wrestled with my thoughts, but these short pockets of time felt like a lifetime to me.

  Bess looked across at me. She seemed to sense my feelings of insecurity, and that talking in my own home, in surroundings that I had created, was a struggle that was going to be hard to overcome for me. She continued to look at me as she spoke softly:

  ‘Okay, let’s take it a little bit at a time, there’s no rush.’

  Inside, my chest felt the burden easing off allowing a little bit of comfort to ease back into the cavity that had just a few seconds earlier felt lifeless and crushed.

  ‘All right, thanks.’

  I was so glad of the words she had spoken; glad of the few things she had said that helped me start to talk about what had happened to me at the hands of the man who always said he was a friend. As Bess sat opposite me in my lounge that day, I started to slowly tell her how the events of those summers way back long ago unfolded; to tell her of experiences that were not meant for a child. It was these experiences that subsequently expanded into years of sexual abuse. These were the events that shaped my life, destroying and stealing parts of me that should never have been destroyed or stolen. I was so angry, but I hid my feelings and continued to hide them until that day: the day Bess Meyer walked into my world.

  I began my story:

  ‘I was eleven. Bill was a man who used to work at the bingo hall my mum used to go to. He became her friend. He used to halve the cost of her tickets so she could go more often, she loved bingo.’ I sat forward in the chair and slowly took a deep breath to go on…

  ‘Mum used to keep me off school so I could go with her. She liked my company and I didn’t mind missing school because I didn’t have many friends. The other kids in my class were horrible to me, and even though I only had four or five pimples on my chin, they would always pick on me and call me ‘acne face’. Every day they did this. When I walked into class, if I looked at them or smiled, they would always say, “What you looking at acne face?” The teachers at school never heard their taunts or saw what they did to me.

  ‘I hated school for that reason, but I loved the lessons. History and English literature were my favourite subjects. I loved reading books and used to get really excited when I knew it was English Literature day. We were reading A Kind of Loving by Stan Barstow. It was really good. If I could have gone to school and been left alone by the other kids, I don’t think I’d have been willing to give up any school day no matter how much I enjoyed being with my mum.

  ‘At first Mum didn’t go to the bingo very often, but over the next few mo
nths she seemed to be going almost every day, and on most of those days I went, too. Bill asked her one day if I could help her make the sandwiches for the snack bar in the bingo hall and she said “Yes”.

  ‘It didn’t matter how I felt about helping this man. Each time I objected she always said to me: “Oh Sarah you’ll be fine, after all I’m only sat here.” From that day on Bill planned, carried out and instigated his plan of how to start abusing an innocent eleven-year-old.

  ‘Me.

  ‘At that time I didn’t know why I felt uncomfortable around him and I just didn’t know the plan he had for me.

  ‘He carefully manoeuvred his way into my mum’s trust and gained enough of it to be alone with me. At first it was just twenty minutes, but as the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months, these precious minutes turned into longer periods of time. Hours were far harder to forget, the memories of which were not just engraved in my memory, but deeply chiselled in, as if a stonemason had created them, anxious that his work would never wear out.’

  Recalling all of this to Bess was beginning to show in my face. I began to get upset as I remembered and recalled the words that would be used to describe the events that would shortly follow the last ones I had spoken of. Eventually, I would have to speak of the things that he did to me and share them again. Saying them out loud, letting them break free. For me, once I speak about the way he moved, acted, and abused me, the words take on shape, forming themselves into dramatic visions that suddenly assume reality. I then start to see them as if I am still living them at that very moment. Once more, each memory is unblemished and alive. Recreated in a new, fresh instant, when time hasn’t quite built up enough distance to tarnish and discolour them.