More casework

I should warn readers, for this blog only, that it is possible that the topic covered here of abuse of children may be too distressing for some—and you are welcome to skip it, though I promise that I give no distressing details. It was a very large part of my work.

Hush, don’t speak, don’t tell, don’t cry

When I was offered a post as a consultant alongside Dr Andy Wills and Dr Mike Morgan, my mentors, I became almost by default a specialist in child sexual abuse. Earlier in my career, we saw occasional cases in adult services, but later it became obvious that it was a far commoner crime and often more horrible than had been realised. The great majority of the children, including boys, almost always preferred to talk to a woman, certainly at first. Indeed many adults came forward in the families with whom we were involved, with stories of abuse often going back generations.

All this was well known in the 70s, let alone the 80s, but it is quite disturbing how many people and whole institutions turned their backs on it. So I have to say a little about it, not least because out of all the fine colleagues outside our own NHS service that I was blessed with, the most helpful and understanding were the police—more specifically the CID.

I partly put this down to the head of the CID in Gwent at that time. It may be relevant that he had started work as a nurse and then transferred to the police. He was also Deputy Chief Constable. We worked closely together for several years and ran joint multidisciplinary conferences for three years running, from 1989, using the police headquarters—thereby I suspect generating much more interest and attendance than in a medical setting. He too passed away many years ago, but I have always been glad that I reciprocated his many kindnesses to me by writing to him and his wife with a full tribute before he died.

The regular police also got to know me and over the years would sometimes ask me to see adult woman victims, though I prefer the title ‘survivor’. These I saw in my own time and often continued with therapy (unpaid) provided their GP agreed to it, so I was covered. The GPs never refused, my colleagues also knew about it and so, of course, did my wonderful husband Ken, so I always had someone with whom I could discuss any confidential details within the medical profession and accept advice.

In these memoirs I want to share not so much the horror as a couple of stories that have given me insight into the goodness in the heart of so many people, even survivors of abuse, because their lives have taught me, upheld me and given me insight into this goodness. However, the accounts of the abuse they suffered are far too distressing to recount. One learns ways of coping with those, as a therapist, so that the many, tragic, nightmare things others have suffered do not prevent you from helping them to process the trauma. Now that I am getting old and my mind is slipping a bit, these memories are not so safely buried and I also—for my own protection—do not wish to dwell on them except when it is necessary. How many victims never make it as far as therapy? We can only guess, but the number must be very high.

One such woman, more than 20 years ago, was talked down from suicide off the Newport transporter bridge, late one evening. The sympathetic policewoman rang me as she couldn’t think of anything else to do. I ended up seeing this lady every week, then fortnightly, on my way home from work for three memorable years. I learned such an incredible amount from her and other survivors, though these are the ones, I must admit, that come back to haunt me in bad nights.

This lady had severe dissociative disorder (previously known as multiple personality) with depression, phobias, auditory hallucinations and anorexia—all as a result of child sexual abuse. In addition to the damage done by the original abuse, she fell into the hands of a religious sect who ‘treated’ her for demonic possession (non-existent in her case), making her symptoms all much worse. In spite of that, she retained a marvellous sense of humour and a caring love for others. She is one of the bravest and loveliest people I have known in all my life.

As with Anne, these special people have reappeared in my life after many years in between medical care and friendship. So I’ll tell you about another such friend, who also gave me an account of her life’s experiences over many years of therapy—another such brave and lovely woman. She too has had to have enormous courage just to keep going and now shows a caring heart and a great sense of humour, although her story could have ended very differently. It is inspirational so I have written it for sharing, more like a story, with her permission and minor changes to reduce identifying features.

I was a stranger and you took me in

A little girl is walking down a railway track in a Welsh mining valley. She is trying to help her younger sister along too. She stumbles and one of her older brothers turns and takes her hand for a moment, helping both girls along. Her mother looks back and sighs, but speaks kindly, “We must get to the other side of this valley before this shift at the mine ends. It’s our only chance of escape!” gesturing a little wildly behind her. The four children follow obediently, speeding up. Their world has come to an end. Two days previously the boys, only 14 and 16 years old respectively, had turned on their father and hit him repeatedly to stop him beating their mother, a regular pastime on his part which had gone on unchecked by anyone for many years. Astonished and outraged, he stormed off, threatening Armageddon on his return.

Throughout her young life, the young girl had learned to listen out for the nightly return of her father from the pub and in fear had needed to gauge the intensity of his outpouring of threats and intimidation before allowing herself, reluctantly, to sleep.

Grabbing the two girls, aged 6 and 12, their mother had got all four children to pack a few essentials and hastened them out of the house. She knew that this could only end in murder and, at last, necessity gave her the courage to leave. At first, they had gone to a relative in the next village, who she hoped could offer shelter. Her aunt fed them and arranged a temporary sleeping arrangement for the night, but the next morning her husband insisted they be sent away.

Now, the frightened little family was truly running away. The mother, despairing and with nowhere else to go, simply took the road down the hill, turned left at the railway track and they trudged along it for several miles. The older girl, walking in a daze but still trying to comfort her crying little sister, hardly knew what she felt. The thought of freedom from the terrifying secret home life should have been good, but it was equally terrifying to be unwanted and afraid of being caught again, by a father whose abuses of her in particular did not stop with the beatings and rages administered to the rest of the family.

They came near to the next small town, all very hungry. The poor mother, still in turmoil with no idea of where she could go, took them into the local shop to get them something to eat. By a strange million-to-one chance, she ran into a lady who she had worked with for a while many years previously, not even in that particular town. “Hello Mary,” she said tentatively—not even sure she would be recognised. Mary smiled with pleasure,

“My goodness!” she said “so these are your children? How lovely to see you. What are you doing here?”

It was no use to try to keep up any sort of a facade. Mary quickly learned of their situation and registered the despair in the eyes of her one-time friend.

“But of course,” she said, “You must come home with me.”

Mary took them to her little house, where she and her husband lived with their own young son and daughter. The husband, sitting by a warm fire, smiled broadly and welcomed everybody. Jane, the 14-year-old daughter, two years older than the girl, smiled at her, even when told she would be sharing her bed with her that night.

Mary bustled around, making them welcome. She too smiled at the 12-year-old and gave her a hot milky drink, Ovaltine, unknown to her before. The girl never forgot that new sensation of tastiness and warmth, for her it was a completely new experience of care and shelter. Ever afterwards, that moment and the drink remained as the signal of salvation from terror, the start of a new life of peace and love, so freely offered by Mary and her family.

They stayed with the family for six months, until the council found them accommodation. Looking back, the girl remembers that she used to wet the bed, but Jane never complained. If there were any tensions in this suddenly doubled household, the girl does not remember them. There were many problems for the grown-ups, as the outraged abuser tried to recapture his prey. Later still, when the girl grew up, there were many problems too with the post-traumatic stress disorder induced by the abuse and yet the girl grew up into a conscientious adult, with love in her heart to offer to those in need.

In the time of their greatest need, they were kept safe by the generosity of an ordinary church-going Welsh family, who understood the bible text: “I was a stranger and you took me in.” Indeed, they did—without question and all summed up in a cup of hot, milky nectar, aka Ovaltine.