I Did Tell, I Did

by Cassie Harte

  On Christmas Day, after I had been awake all night, I suddenly had the panic attack of all panic attacks. The hallucinations were horrible: I thought I saw bodies all over the floor, oozing blood. Flashbacks of the abuse, memories that I couldn’t escape, were rushing through my mind. I was banging my head against the wall of the bedroom just trying to knock all the thoughts that were haunting me out of my head. I ran out of the house and began to make my way to my friend’s house, two streets away. The horrors I was feeling stripped me of any common sense or sense of reality. Several people gave me strange looks as they passed but I didn’t care. Then a neighbour saw me and stopped me.

  ‘Are you OK, Cassie?’ she asked with concern. ‘Are you sure you should be out like this?’ she continued, looking down at my clothes.

  This stopped me in my tracks. I looked down and realised that I still had my slippers and dressing gown on. I hadn’t washed or combed my hair. Added to the terror I was feeling at that time, I must have looked demented.

  She put her arm around my shoulder to guide me back home and I crumpled to the floor sobbing.

  These withdrawal symptoms continued to one degree or another for eighteen months as I reduced the tablets little by little. I alternated between not being able to sleep at all or having horrific night terrors, and the panic attacks during the day rendered me helpless and distraught. I thought it would never end. I became afraid to go to bed because of the nightmares and sometimes sat in my chair all night. I wouldn’t answer the phone some days and definitely wouldn’t answer the door.

  As I came down further from the original dose, I realised that my self-confidence was non-existent. At least whilst I was taking the drugs, I was able to go out and do all the things required of me. At least with the medication I could function. Most people didn’t even know I had a problem. I don’t think I knew I had a problem, until I tried to stop taking the tablets.

  But then some of the positives began to kick in. As the amount of medication I was taking reduced, I was surprised at how different I began to feel. I could taste food again, smell perfume and flowers, and feel emotions that had been locked away.

  One of the most poignant times was when I was playing with my dog one day and I laughed, laughed out loud. My daughters stopped what they were doing and stared at me. I didn’t know what I had done. I just knew that something had either alarmed them or scared them.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

  They continued to stare, not sure what to say to me.

  ‘You laughed, Mum,’ said Lucy. ‘You laughed.’ She sounded unsure how I was going to react. They both stood still. And then I cried and they flew over to me and hugged me.

  ‘It’s all right, Mum, it’s good that you laughed, isn’t it?’ Melissa asked.

  I assured her that it was indeed good and that I was crying with happiness, but the truth was, I was crying because of the impact that my laughter had had on my precious children. I wondered how long it had been since they had heard it.

  Then one day I shouted at them. They were mortified. I hadn’t shouted for years. I either didn’t have the strength or just didn’t become so cross that I had to shout. I hadn’t become angry or stressed while taking the drugs; I didn’t feel very much at all, so when I shouted at them they were shocked. So there were downsides as far as the children were concerned, but they were safe in the assurance that this was good, this was what normal mothers do.

  During the last six months of breaking my dependency I needed something to focus on and decided to look for a part-time job doing something interesting but not too taxing. I was in the throes of cutting down the tablets into the smallest pieces possible and I had terrific mood swings but my concentration was improving. I was incredibly thin but had started to take a pride in my appearance once again. I laughed more and enjoyed things much more than I could ever remember doing.

  I was offered a job working for two young men who ran a marketing and design company and I decided to tell my new employers my story to enable them to understand my everchanging moods. They were incredibly supportive and suggested that I should wear a colour-coded badge: yellow on a good day, blue on a not-so-good day and red on a bad day. They wouldn’t even speak to me when I wore the red badge unless I spoke first. It worked. I began to see a funny side and get my sense of humour back. I had used humour as a defence sometimes, but now I could actually laugh at myself. Both of these lovely young men supported me in my endeavour to end the dependency by showing complete faith in my ability to do this and to do my job.

  The hardest part of ending the control these pills had on me was to let go of the last tiny piece of the last pill. This took months and months. I think I was afraid of the fear itself, more than afraid of what might happen. Logically I knew that the tiny piece of tablet that I couldn’t let go of couldn’t make very much, if any, difference. But it was like a crutch—a crutch that I was afraid to give up. I continued to take this minute piece of medication every morning. I just couldn’t let go, couldn’t give it up until some eighteen months after beginning to cut down. I finally gave up completely in November 1984, a year before my fortieth birthday.

  It had been eighteen long months since I made the decision to go clean and it was extraordinarily difficult, but when I came out the other side I soon began to realise just how much the struggle had been worth it. At last I was myself again.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  As I got used to my new, drug-free life, the last thing on my mind was romance. I was done with that, permanently. I had been there several times and won all the T-shirts. Now I had a mortgage to pay, two daughters to feed and clothe, and several pets to look after, because we had somehow collected a little dog, three cats and numerous rabbits and guinea pigs. I needed to earn enough money to do all this, so that was my priority. I was promoted to a different job within the marketing and design company, and I now worked closely with the two partners who were the creators and designers. I loved the creative atmosphere and the fact that people would ask my opinion on ideas and themes for campaigns and adverts. At first I had been doing the books, then I moved into despatching goods and soon I was running the whole office. It was a very happy, productive little team.

  One of the directors was a very charismatic man called Peter. I was fascinated by him right from the start as I really admired his creative brain and the work he did. One day we needed a quiet room for recording a campaign for a new product and he suggested using a room in his house, so I went back with him to assess it. It was then, on our own and out of the office setting, that I had to admit to myself that I was very attracted to him. But surely it would never be reciprocated? Surely he wouldn’t look at me?

  I asked the girls in the office about him and they all said that he was a very nice guy but a confirmed bachelor. He had girlfriends but he was quite clear that he would never settle down with any of them, because he liked living on his own with his Irish red setter. I wasn’t looking for any serious commitments either, so that seemed ideal.

  Gradually, as we worked together, he began asking about my life. I told him about my battle to come off tranquillisers and, when I finished, he leaned over and kissed me very gently. Could something good be about to happen in my life? Still I didn’t dare hope. Was there no hidden agenda this time? Was God listening?

  We went to a design fair together and at the end of the day we stopped for dinner on the way home—and again he kissed me. It was gentle and undemanding and I was ecstatic. I couldn’t stop smiling for ages after he dropped me off at my front door. Life seemed so much brighter than it had been for years—decades, even. I had a job I loved, two wonderful daughters and now this. A new chance.

  One afternoon when we had closed the office early, Peter asked if I would like to go for a drink. Of course I said I would love to and we drove to his house. He had the first CD player I had ever seen or heard—they were still a new technology—and as he placed the earphones on my head I felt
tingly, almost drunk. Sometimes, his closeness was almost too much. The music sounded incredible and I was blown away. Up till then we had shared a few kisses but we had never made love. Again I hadn’t even thought about this; perhaps I didn’t read the signs or perhaps I didn’t understand my own feelings. For me, sex had always been at the bidding of a man, and it was sometimes bearable, sometimes brutal, just something that I put up with for one reason or another.

  Since I was a child.

  Since forever.

  So why would I have read the signs? This was different—not dirty, not nasty, but different.

  So I didn’t see it coming. It was a total surprise that I could make love with a man without the fear and dread that had always accompanied this act. But make love we did. It was a new experience for me, and afterwards I cried. Peter was mortified.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, looking at me with such warmth. ‘I thought it was OK, I thought it was the right time.’ He looked sad.

  I didn’t know what to say; I didn’t know what I felt. All I knew was that something had happened to me and it felt right.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said softly, afraid that if I spoke any louder he would disappear. ‘Honestly, it’s OK, I’m OK.’

  Without either of us speaking, we cuddled up and fell asleep. It felt safe. Later, he took me home and we didn’t mention what had happened. I was confused and worried. What had happened back there? What was that feeling? I was afraid to be happy, afraid that if I accepted that I was falling in love, it would all be stolen from me. It seemed God was listening to me now, but it was so new that I was confused and a bit scared, if truth be told.

  The next time we saw each other, we drank a bit of champagne and I told him of my fears and confusion. He replied with a kiss so gentle and warm that all of my previous feelings disappeared. It felt so good, so right. It felt as if there were only two people in the whole world. Him and me.

  I don’t know if it was the champagne but when we went to bed I lay by his side and began to cry, tiny little tears, and I told him everything. I told him of my childhood, the abuse and my being afraid to love, even that I didn’t know what love was. He was the first person I had told about Bill, the only person—apart from Mum, that is—and he was horrified and sympathetic and angry all at once. He told me that none of it had been my fault; I was only a child. My fear had always been that I would be blamed, or not believed, but Peter reassured me that this was nonsense. It felt easy telling him, it seemed right. He held me until I went to sleep. I felt safe.

  The following day I was sure things would be different with us. I don’t know what I expected but what I didn’t expect was that nothing had changed. Peter was the same, I was the same, but something was different. When he caressed my body, he was so loving and gentle that I relaxed and began to respond. He made me feel special, and this special was good. His touch was magical, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and we made the most beautiful love that could be imagined. Yes, I cried, but these tears were tears of joy.

  Over the next few months this wonderful, love-bringing man taught me self-respect and self-worth. Peter loved and believed in me. Yes, the sexual side was wonderful and I began to realise that I could enjoy sex, but the whole package—being loved and the way this made me feel—changed me completely. I thought I had loved before but I knew now that I hadn’t. This love was different; it was complete and good. In this love, I had grown—grown as a woman and as a person. Peter gave me confidence, confidence to be me, to do what I wanted and to be OK with the consequences. He taught me how love and sex could be wonderful. Not dirty, not nasty, not evil. He made me realise that I was capable of enjoying life and that it was OK to do so. But most of all he helped me to find me. His love was the beginning of my actually liking the person I was becoming and learning that it was OK to feel that way.

  We travelled round the country together, going to design fairs, staying in hotels, and at Christmas he took me to London where we drove along looking at the Christmas lights. It was drizzling and the rain looked like tears. The lights looked smudged yet beautiful and their beauty stunned me. It was like a fairyland to my eyes. I gasped and sighed at what I was seeing.

  ‘You’re like a little girl,’ Peter said kindly. ‘A little girl anticipating Christmas.’

  I suppose I was in a way—although as a little girl Christmas had never been worth the anticipation. But yes, I had waited for it, each year, with more hope and prayers than I should have invested. But I wasn’t a little girl now; I was a grown woman, a woman in love with a man who I knew ultimately wouldn’t be mine. No matter how much he loved me, he would never change his views and ask me to marry him, or even move in with him. He was a free spirit, too independent to ever be tied down. What we had was wonderful but it wasn’t going anywhere. As I watched the lights fading, there was little difference between the tears of rain on the window and the salty tears running down my cheeks.

  At our hotel that night, I had an idea for a story about a little character and a mirror. Peter thought the idea was really good and encouraged me to write more. This was the beginning of another dream that I had—to write for children. A few years later, with the confidence he had begun to give me and the belief in my character, a dream was realised. I wrote this story and self-published my book to great acclaim.

  Early in the New Year, the design company we worked for was disbanded. Peter and I continued to work together for a while on our own projects but gradually I was coming to realise that I wanted more from a relationship than he could give. It was one of the hardest decisions I had ever made in my life but I knew I had to end things between us before I got hurt.

  He was distraught when I told him. ‘Don’t do this,’ he begged. ‘We can still see each other.’

  Through my tears I told him I had to. ‘I want more than you can give me. I always have.’ I was as honest as I had always been with him. ‘You never made me any promises about commitment. You never lied about that, but I want more.’

  We held on to each other for a long time, and through his tears he whispered, ‘But I never got to kiss the back of your knees. I have kissed every other beautiful part of you.’

  I almost changed my mind. I wanted to change my mind but I didn’t. I wanted to thank him for all that he had given me. To tell him how he had changed my life, how he had changed me. I wanted so much to let him know that life was now a good place for me and it was mostly thanks to him. I wanted so much to say thank you for helping me to realise the beauty and wonder of love, both sexually and emotionally. I wanted to say that I still loved him, that I’d always love him and thank him for loving me. I wanted to say so much.

  But I couldn’t.

  I couldn’t speak through my tears.

  As he left the house, I wondered if I was doing the right thing. Should I have just held on to what I had and been satisfied? Should I run after him and say everything would be all right?

  But I didn’t. It wasn’t right. If I had stayed there, I would never have moved on to the next happy time, the next love and to the rest of my life.

  Over the next few months I became a teenager again. I started going out to nightclubs and rediscovered my love of dancing. My daughters often told me off for the sexy outfits I wore—‘You can’t go out in that, Mum!’ they’d exclaim, to my great amusement. I had lots of dates with men, going out for dinner and even to watch the local football team playing, but none of them were serious.

  Then one night, when I was out clubbing with a girlfriend, a man called Daniel came over and asked me to dance. He was dark-haired with the deepest brown eyes I’d ever seen and once I was in his arms I felt giddy and could almost hear my heart beating. I wasn’t sure what was happening—I didn’t want anything to happen so soon after parting from Peter. But once we got talking, we couldn’t stop. We sat up chatting till four in the morning the first night we met, because there was just so much to say.

  Over the next few weeks we had an old-fashioned cour
tship. He brought me handmade chocolates, flowers and gifts, and I could tell he was a true romantic. No pressure, no hurry, just a gentle getting to know each other.

  About two months after meeting Daniel, I heard that my dad had been quite ill and, after many attempts, found the courage to ring home to ask after him. Mum hadn’t been speaking to me since the end of my marriage to John. She couldn’t forgive me for letting such a wealthy, prestigious man slip through my fingers, even though I told her about what he’d done to me. I used to ring to speak to Dad when I was sure she would be out but a couple of times she intercepted the calls and responded with scathing sarcasm, making me nervous about calling again. But now Dad was ill and Mum was happy to let the prodigal daughter return to help her play the role of worried wife. I visited Dad in hospital and was distraught when he told me that he was dying.

  ‘You’re not going to die, Dad. You can beat this. You’ve been through worse than this.’ I tried not to cry, not to let him see how scared I was.

  ‘No, my love, this time it’s beaten me.’ He seemed calm now, almost relieved. ‘Bye, bye,’ he murmured, before nodding off to sleep. These were his last words to me, as he died later that night. My beloved dad was gone. I had loved him with all my heart, even though I knew he was weak, too weak to stand up to Mum, too weak to protect me. He was a kind, gentle soul and I mourned for him.

  I stayed with my mother for a few days, making arrangements for the funeral. Although in public she played the grieving widow, crying whenever someone came to offer their condolences, in private she talked and talked about the love of her life: Bill. The man who had hurt me so badly. No thought for my dad, no thought for me, just her grief for the man with whom she had had a decades-long affair. She would ask me to hold her while she cried for him and I found this very hard. She had never held me, as a child or as a young woman, but now she wanted me to hold her while she cried for my abuser.