I’ve almost stressed myself out of my tiny mind thinking of how to start this particular post, do I go straight in with black humour? Do I introduce myself and my history in a way akin to a factual documentary (yawn) or do I start with some powerful, emotively deep statement? How about just writing? I don’t want this to become some overthought, contrived self help guide to surviving child abuse, I want this to just be me, in words, laid bare….

I’m really blessed.

Lucky in that whenever I think back to my childhood my memories are mostly really positive, I grew up in a very typical working class family, both parents, two siblings, him older, her younger and we had enough. Never excessive amounts of money, or if I’m honest affection, but we had enough. We knew we were loved, we had everything we needed and most of what we wanted and I was happy, mostly. I remember caravan holidays, harness racing, hot summers, snowy winters and freedom. I grew up on a council estate on the edge of my home town and my freedom was only limited by how far my little bike would take me. Looking back it was actually quite idyllic. Even taking off the old rose tinted specs it’s still not all that bad. This was how I wanted my family to remember my childhood too and never would I have chosen to have conversations with them around the darker parts. It wasn’t anyone’s business but mine and that’s how it was going to stay.

How naive could you get!!

Right up until my late 20’s I was completely convinced that this was my story, my stage show to direct as I saw fit. I hadn’t needed anyone up until that point and was doing okay (aye, right) so why change things? I had a job, a decent car, good friends and a great social life. What I failed to recognise was that I had an enormous problem with trust, couldn’t commit to anything, struggled to let anyone even remotely close but more than anything could not stand to look at myself for fear of seeing what I really was; a drug abusing, hard living, risk taking slag. I was a first class, grade A asshole but I did have the foresight to realise why. If I acted out it was because I was abused. If I made poor choices, so what? I was abused. Cold and narcissistic?? That’s okay, I was abused. 

I remember a couple of different points where I very nearly opened Pandora’s Box and started a bit of self examination but I think I knew deep down that I was nowhere NEAR ready to take on that particular challenge so each time the box was firmly shut again, my head went right back up my own colon and it was business as usual, eat, sleep, pills, repeat. Then I met the manchild who would cause my entire life to change, but more on that another day.