‘I had been controlled for so long and I felt then that it was my turn. In my twenties, I felt the same.
‘And,’ I said to her, ‘I’ll tell you something. A lot of men out there like to be controlled. They like pain and being humiliated, and I found them.’
‘You mean you became a dominatrix?’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what I was.’
57
As far as I was concerned, my life was sorted. I was only in my twenties and earning more money than I had ever dreamt about. I was able to send my son to a private junior school and have an au pair living in who babysat when I was out working.
Once again, I had a wardrobe of nice clothes, only this time I had paid for them myself, plus I had plenty of money in the bank. I planned to buy a house, then another to rent out. In a few years I could retire, I thought. I’d be financially secure. Maybe buy a small wine bar, give myself something to do.
But the one thing I was determined not to do was get emotionally entangled. I had affairs with women, nice affectionate ones, but nothing too deep. Men were solely business.
‘What changed?’ asked my therapist.
‘I met Helena – believe it or not in a music venue, in Manchester, though, not London. It might sound corny to say our eyes met across a crowded bar, but that’s exactly what happened.’
She nodded, and I told her the final part of my story.
I saw a slim girl, dressed casually in jeans and a loose sweater. Her hair was straight and glossy, her skin smooth and her eyes, when I caught her gaze, were brown. Not the brown so dark that little of their expression is evident, but the soft colour of a creamy caramel toffee. Those warm eyes smiled at me and, picking up my drink, I moved over to where she was sitting.
That night, we talked incessantly, as if we had known each other all our lives. I was oblivious to everyone else around me and I knew I must see her again. I asked for her phone number and telephoned early the following morning. ‘I want to see you,’ I said.
We met in a small, cosy wine bar where she told me she had taken a degree course at Leeds University and was now working for Social Services.
She asked me what I did – which, that night, I brushed off. I said something about being between jobs, which, although partly true, gave little away as to what my profession was.
I already knew that I didn’t want to walk away from her.
I told her the truth before we went to bed for the first time. I felt I had to – I owed her that. Then, without meaning to, I told her everything else. We talked – or, rather, I talked and she listened into the early hours of the morning.
Afterwards, when I was finally drained of all emotion, she took my hand and led me to the bedroom.
That was when, for the very first time, I discovered the difference between making love and just having sex. It was more, much more, than two bodies entwined: it was the touching of fingers, toes, mouths and faces; it was the wanting to merge with her, to be held, and wanting never to let go.
It was loving the scent of her, the feel of softness and the sound of her voice. When we were together, I could feel her skin against mine even when we weren’t touching. Each time I saw her I felt breathless with a happiness I had never believed possible.
‘Jackie,’ she said, some time after we had met, ‘where do you see our relationship going?’
I couldn’t answer that question easily. All I knew was that I wanted to be with her and said so.
She told me then that she couldn’t handle me being an escort. ‘I know I don’t have the right to tell you how to live your life, but that’s the way I feel,’ she said. She told me she understood why I might think that was all I could do, but she insisted it wasn’t.
She asked if I was using again and I admitted I was. That was another condition: I had to get clean.
That night I sat and thought through my options. I could be an escort with plenty of money and take the drugs I wanted. My other choice was to have a relationship that made me happy, not have much money and put myself through rehab again.
I chose the second option.
Rehab was no better that time round than it had been before; the only difference was, I knew what to expect – and I had Helena for support.
After that, with my sporadic education, I knew if I was going to do more than stand behind a bar, hoping my mental arithmetic was good enough to add up a bill, or work as a waitress, I had to rethink.
‘Evening classes. Lots of adults do them,’ said Helena.
So I said goodbye to leather skirts, black stockings, suspenders, push-up bras and low-cut tops. Instead, I put on jeans and a sweatshirt and enrolled in adult literacy classes.
A year later we moved in together. I bought the house I had planned to. I was unable to pay cash for it, but I had saved enough for a respectable deposit. My divorce from Kevin went through smoothly. I let him keep my share of the proceeds of the house sale, and that was enough for him not to contest it.
Some time after that Helena and I decided we wanted more than just living together and decided to get married. First, I broke the news to my parents. I expected screams of outrage from my mother – after all, she was of a different generation – but that was not what happened. She said she was happy for me, that two grandchildren were enough and, anyhow, she had never liked Kevin. Even his name was common. Well, some things never change, and ‘Helena’, I had to admit, did sound classier. My mother actually agreed to look after my daughter when we went on honeymoon, and my son went to stay with friends.
My father seemed a bit startled, but took it in his stride. Now he had two daughters, he said, and really that was his only comment on the matter.
Next I had to tell my children. Nervously I sat them down and explained. My son said, ‘Cool, Mum,’ and my daughter, ‘Awesome.’
The only blot on my life was that, without drugs, my five-year-old self was making her appearance again. Helena told me it didn’t matter, that she could deal with it, but I decided, once the wedding was over, I needed to seek professional help.
My therapist smiled. ‘Tell me about the wedding, Jackie.’
It was a perfect day, the best day of my life.
Helena looked wonderful, all shiny hair and sparkling big brown eyes. She was wearing a white strappy top, black trousers and high-heeled boots that reminded me of the ones I had once worn.
We had planned everything together, the hotel for the reception, the menu and the flowers. Not wanting the normal cheesy wedding music, we even took along CDs of our choice. As people arrived, we had the slow version of Cascada singing ‘Everytime We Touch’, and walked in to Aerosmith’s ‘I Don’t Wanna Miss A Thing’. As we signed the register we had Bon Jovi’s ‘Thank You For Loving Me’ played, and finally we walked out to the sounds of Savage Garden’s ‘Truly Madly Deeply’.
We then went to a large hotel in Manchester where a buffet had been laid on for us and our guests. Later we cut the three-tier chocolate cake.
We had hired a DJ for the evening and told him not to play anything too ‘different’. ‘I want my parents to like it as well, so stick to standards,’ I told him. Yes, that’s right, my parents were there. So were my son and daughter.
The champagne flowed, faces beamed, my parents chatted to Helena’s, music played and we literally danced the night away.
Once the last guest had gone, Helena and I spent the night together in the presidential suite and, the following morning, flew to Toronto for our honeymoon. It was such a beautiful city. We hired bikes and explored as much of it as we could. We spent a day wandering round the grounds of the Casa Loma, ate a meal at the top of CN Tower and finally took a boat trip to the Niagara Falls. Then we came home.
That was the end of my story, and the beginning of one that I have yet to live. One that I know will be happy. The only thing I had to deal with was the visits from my younger self.
‘Why?’ I asked my therapist. ‘Why now, when I’m happy? What is it she wants? That’s what
I would like to ask her.’
‘I think,’ my therapist said, ‘that she wants to know if you’re still angry with her. When she has been reassured enough, I think you’ll find she’ll go. Jackie,’ she asked me then, ‘how do you feel about her now?’
‘I feel sad,’ I said, ‘when I think of the little girl I once was and what those men did to her. I don’t think she stood a chance, do you?’
‘No,’ said my therapist, ‘she didn’t – but the adult you does.’
After my early sessions, my therapist talked to Helena; she told her how to handle the appearance of my younger self. The most important thing was to make the little girl feel safe.
We bought soft toys that Helena gave her, when she came. To begin with, there were times when an ambulance had to be called – that was when the little girl was angry and frightened. But gradually she appeared more content. Helena said my other self was rather sweet and just wanted to play.
She comes much less now.
‘Will I ever be completely better?’ I asked my therapist, when my sessions were drawing to an end.
‘What do you think, Jackie?’ she asked.
‘Not completely,’ I said.
58
Over the time I had been seeing her, my therapist had told me to get rid of some of my hurt and anger by writing letters to the people who had harmed me. They were never sent – I had no address for most of them.
I wrote to my parents and told them what I thought of their neglect, of how they never noticed that as a small child I had become disturbed. I spoke to my mother only through those letters. Spoke to her of her selfishness, her lack of caring and how she had put her social life before me. I wrote of the anger I felt towards her, and of how as a mother she had let me down. To my father I said I knew that in his own way he had done his best. He had tried on that holiday in Spain, even if he had failed to love me. Those letters covered the root causes of my feelings from small child to adult. That was one pile.
I wrote to others as well, to those I had met along the way, but the biggest pile was to my uncle.
In them I wrote of how he had destroyed my life. That he was the worst sort of pervert. I pulled no punches. But it was my final letter to him that I took to my therapist. Even though our sessions had stopped, I wanted her to see it. I’d written it after he had had his stroke.
Did you wonder why the doctors have given you so many drugs to make you sleep? Did you wonder, too, why the nurses looked at you coldly? I think you did or maybe you knew before I visited you. I told you then, did I not? Told you what I had done: that I had made up my mind that you were never going to return to your home. That I had gone to the doctor, the one in charge of the hospital, told him I was worried that the ward you were in was so near the children’s one. Oh, I know you couldn’t walk then, but you might have learnt again, mightn’t you?
Were you a danger? Well, we both know: not to the children on that ward. But you were to me, to my peace of mind. For every day that I know you live is another day when my past haunts me. Once I had returned to the north, you were at all the family parties, in photographs that were shown around, a name on people’s lips. And I wanted you gone.
The stroke you had. If only you hadn’t been found so fast, you wouldn’t have recovered. But you were, and then they rushed you into hospital.
But you do remember my visit? I only came once. And remember what I whispered in your ear: that there is another hospital they will send you to; one where evil old men are put.
You believed me, believed every word I said. You looked at me so pleadingly for you no longer had the power of speech. Your hand grasped the blanket and I knew from its faint movements that you wanted to stretch it out to me, but you didn’t have the strength.
A little trickle of saliva ran down your chin. It was so disgusting! It repelled me. I left you then. I had nothing more to say.
That night the phone call came. It was from my mother and she was crying: you were her big brother.
I went with her to see you lying there. You were bruised, you know. Those doctors had tried to pull you back from the dead. They had run electric shocks through your body, trying to jump-start that evil heart of yours.
But you didn’t want to come back, did you? I’d made sure of that.
I went to the crematorium and watched as your coffin went through that curtain. I said goodbye as I imagined the flames consuming your body. I had a drink later. I raised a glass when the guests raised theirs. ‘To his memory,’ they said.
Oh, yes, Uncle, I remember you well.
‘Is that really what you did, Jackie?’ she asked, and I knew she wanted to find out if this was just a picture superimposed over a different event, or if it was true.
‘What do you think?’ I asked.
We smiled at each other with understanding.
Then I left, and went to where Helena and my children were waiting.
Can't Anyone Help Me? Page 23