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August 11, 2004

Male Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse: My Life Surviving

A CONTINUING FEATURED STORY: Abuse Survivor, Recovering Alcoholic, Addict, Rent Boy And Sometimes Archaeologist; By Dan -- SW London, United Kingdom -- Dateline -- 27 May, 2004

"I'm Dan and I'm an adult survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse (CSA).

How do I put into words my upbringing? My upbringing was like thousands possibly millions of others within a dysfunctional family.The family I hail from could only be described as totally dysfunctional and it is only with hindsight that I now realize it. I was born in South West London during the mid fifties. I spent the first seven years of my life in Tooting and was surrounded by an extended family living nearby.

My father had gone through a shit time being pushed from pillar to post during evacuation, just like thousands of other kids did during The Blitz. His father walked out on him, his sister and mother only to reappear some thirty years later in rather spooky circumstances. Whereupon I was I was accused of playing some kind of cruel hoax. But that’s my dad, quick to judge, slow to apologize. My father has a control thing but where he got his feeling of superiority from God alone knows. My mothers parents lived at Wandsworth in the shadow of the Pepperpot Church, St.Anne's and place of my christening.

My granddad was my best friend. None of our family was touchy feely although I do vaguely remember being bounced on granddad Mick’s knee usually accompanied by some ancient nursery rhyme.

Unlike my father granddad Mick was interested in me and not how well I did, although he was interested in that as well. I spent many a happy hour playing in Borrowdaile Road opposite the Iron Mill pub in Wandsworth. Most Sundays were spent with Nanny Nell and Granddad Mick. Lunch was always supplied complete with a steamed pudding and custard. It was tea that was the highlight of the week. Plenty of salad from the small patch out back called a garden, piles of fresh bread and butter, a pint or two of winkles that my grandfather relished armed with his special winkling pins. Cheese and corned beef and my own favorite warm sticky Lardy cake and tea made with condensed milk. Wonderful. Grandad Mick also happened to make the best Bubble and Squeak in the world.

Why was my father so concerned about giving the perfect impression? I still cant come up with an answer even today let alone then. However I do have a perfection streak running through me typical of someone born under the star sign of Capricorn apparently. I also possess a very addictive type personality. But in saying that I know perfection cannot be reached except when I was perfectly pissed, permanently and in which state I stayed for thirty odd years.

Nineteen sixty two saw us move out of London to Surrey. Nice place, some lovely memories especially long hot summers, fishing, wide open spaces, camps made out of hay bales and building foundations to play in as the village was expanding rapidly. The cause of this expansion. Commuters. Only half an hour by train to London. Most of the population worked at the former Vickers Armstrong factory sited on the world famous Brooklands race track which lay to the north of the village although technically Brooklands was in Weybridge.

By the mid sixties my grandparents from Wandsworth arrived in the village and settled into their two bed roomed prefab with a massive garden, much to my grandfathers delight, just around the corner from where we lived. My other grandparents owned, ran and lived above a grocers in Clapham north. They too moved out of London to Feltham, near The Airman Pub during the same period. Pubs play a big part in my life or more correctly booze played a major role in my life and I loved the stuff, any shape or form, if it could get you pissed I would go for it big time. I really started hitting the stuff hard around fifteen years of age.

I wasn’t too handy at school. And stood no chance with the eleven plus much to the dismay of my father, But I did play in goal for the primary school football team and was a house captain so I presume I wasn’t doing all that bad. I had also undergone trials with Woking schoolboys but never made it to the first team. A season or two later I changed to being a mid field player, then it was right half heavens alone knows what it is today. The school was run by the formidable one armed Mr. Robinson with heavily nicotine stained fingers and smelling of Capstan Full Strength. There was a permanent fog in his office, at that time nobody had even dreamt up the phrase "passive smoking".

In all these were happy times although I seemed to be in constant trouble with my father resulting in varying degrees of discipline from the usual grounding and being sent to my bed without any tea through to the public humiliation my father used to put me through.

I really hated that.

But the worst thing was when he would rip up my jeans, burst my football or cut my hair whilst asleep. I never did find out why he did this.

My whole relationship with my mother and father was built on lies. I can remember being told that the fair or circus would take me away if I was naughty. To stay away from dirty old men they said nothing about the smart ones! I was told that if at any time I was in trouble I was to go to an adult. Thanks. Some advice that proved to be. The thing that seemed important for a while was masturbation, but “masturbation would make me go blind“ I was told.

I put in my order for a guide dog.

The trouble with that type of comment was a couple of weeks later I was prescribed glasses, I carried on regardless. My father talking about sexual subjects would turn him the color of freshly cooked beetroot. Mum was different she told me matter of factly and that was good enough for me.

My father would reduce me to tears sometimes by giving me a whack and then he would call me names, the usual stuff in front of my small circle of friends and children being children I was teased about it, I tried to just shrug it off but it still hurt and made me angry if anything. I seemed to have bottled that anger and I have real problems managing that anger today.

He would scream at me “Your bloody useless, hopeless, I don’t know why I bother”. I never (or very, very rarely) got praised for anything and that kind of thing dents your confidence. I set out to fail, everything just so I could get some attention from my father. I was successful at that. I was never helped with homework and figure work scares me shitless even today. I failed my eleven plus, although I wasn’t expected to pass anyway, I failed my cycling and football proficiency. It drove my father to distraction. I finished primary schooling during the late sixties and transferred to a new comprehensive school at nearby Weybridge and not the one the majority of my friends were to attend.

I started secondary school and due to my size I was an easy target for the usual introductions from some of the senior pupils “Come and see the blue goldfish” ending up with you getting your head pushed down the bog and chain pulled, normal kids stuff. I got beat up on a couple occasions that was until the time came when I lost my temper totally and gave the toughest lad in the same year as me a couple of very nice shiners, I even got congratulated by the headmaster. Recognition at last. That was all I was asking for, a bit of recognition, unfortunately this new found power went to my head and I became a bully or it appears that way.

Things were not going well at school or at home. And I started to getting into fights at school and with my father as I just wasn’t going to stand there and take it anymore.

In nineteen sixty eight there was an event that took place that woke me up to the real world. My maternal grandfather passed away with a heart attack. He had been ill for sometime with his chest and had been away at convalescence. This was the last time I cried until recently. I was distraught for a long time and I miss him still to this day. I have him to thank for my love of history and everything I know about listening came from him, granddad Mick put me in good stead for being a grandfather myself. And I know I’m bloody good at it. I had a good teacher.

The swinging sixties gave way to the seventies and it was around this time (1971) that I was introduced to Chris Denning through a friend I was with. We were walking up to the local park for a kick about near the Oatlands Park Hotel. You had to pass the hotel with it on your left and the aptly Octagon Lodge on your right. A voice came from behind and in the direction of Octagon Lodge. “Hello Paul”. “Walk on” Paul said out of the corner of his mouth so not to be heard by the owner of the voice. “Paul I would like to ask you and your friend for your opinion on a few new records I have” adding “There is a bottle of coke in it for you and your friend”. My mind highlighted the word record. I was a music nut but I wasn’t sure as yet as to just how much. “Is that a record as in music” I enquired. “Yes” came the reply. “I’ll make it worth your while just a couple of records that’s all”. “Come on” I pulled at Paul’s Ben Sherman shirt “bottle of coke”, “It is a hot one”. Paul stopped and turned around and headed towards the direction of the voice “Come on then” he said.

Chris Denning was a normal looking bloke, short and squat with a very bad fitting toupee. I knew it was a toupee as an uncle of mine used a “syrup”. He wore a permanent smile typical of those trying to sell something, he spoke quickly and accurately like most salesman, whilst putting a record on. He then disappeared and remerged a couple of seconds later with two bottles of Coke, one for me and one for Paul.

“Ta” I said. “what do you think? Asked Chris “about what?” I asked, “this record” “its alright, nothing special” I replied. “Paul you are rude you haven’t introduced me to your friend“. “Chris meet Dan, Dan meet Chris”. “Hi” we both said. “Well Dan what do you think?” “nothing special” I repeat. “I’m more into Motown and prog rock, giving the impression I knew what I was on about as I’m not the brightest of the bunch or so I believed. I hated being embarrassed and caught for something to say so I‘d say the first thing that entered my head.

Chris appeared to be really interested in what I had to say, Nobody as yet had asked for my opinion. I was of the “children are to be seen and not heard” generation. “Keep it buttoned” with the added action of another backhander, was my fathers favorite saying. Paul asked to borrow the bog and went to do whatever. Chris turned the stereo down “Haven’t seen you around here before. You live local?” “No I live near Byfleet. I go to school in Weybridge same as Paul”. “You the same age?” he asks “no I’m the younger“. “Paul is a year older than me”. “So that makes you sixteen?” he enquired. “No. I’m fourteen, fifteen in December” Right” he says “so what you think?” “Not my type of music” “So what is your type of music? “Bands like The Who, Free, Deep Purple , Humble Pie and The Moody Blues“, I added “hard rock“, “Stuff like that” I said in reply. I had recently heard of a band named Yes and I had grown to admire the musicianship that they afforded, not that I could play anything as that would have taken patience and patience is one thing I really do lack. I was a now and immediate gratification type person. “Have you got any Who?” Denning opened a sliding louvre door, revealing the largest record collection I had ever seen. I stood there mouth agog. It had everything singles, albums, demo copies, promotional singles and tapes of him and The Beatles to go with the pictures on the back wall of the Fab Four talking to Denning. He also had dimmer switches which was novel for the beginning of the seventies. “The Who. They are on Track if I remember rightly” and out came The Who Sell Out “Any particular track?” “I can see for miles” “Loud if possible” and it was loud but you could still hear everything as clear as a bell. Paul returned from the khasi after what seemed an eternity, finished his coke handed the empty to Chris and said “right I’m off” “You coming? he said looking at me as I had a football at my feet. “Yep ok lets go“. “Hang on boys” there was a pile of singles sitting on a coffee table Chris picked up a handful gave Paul four and me four. “Ring me and let me know what you think of them“. He carried on “Paul you have my number this one is for you Dan” handing me a small blue-grey colored card with his name and telephone number on. “Seriously, ring me I value your opinion. If I’m not in leave a message“. “How?” I asked. “I have an answering machine just leave a message, I love gadgets” said Denning. At that point the phone did ring he left it and sure enough this machine started talking asking the caller to leave a message, which the caller dully did. “There you go” says Denning “I had better call them back“. Paul and I said our goodbyes, saw ourselves out and left. “Remember Dan give me a ring and let me know what you think of those records”. "Ok" I replied and out into the air we stepped.

“It was bloody hot in there” I said and quickly followed that with “what were you trying to say to me before we went into the house“. Paul and I kept walking. Paul looked behind as if someone was creeping up on us. “He’s a queer, a poof”. “Is he?” I said “How do you know?“ I asked, the reply never came Paul had kicked the ball over the rec fence and quickly followed it. The conversation was forgotten as a kick about began.

My fate, unbeknown to me was already sealed and my grooming had already begun.

Groomed and grooming are not new words to the English language but their original meaning is somewhat lost in this politically correct society we are part of . Today grooming still means the same as in “well turned out” but it is more understood in conjunction with paedophiles. Grooming is the process whereby a paedophile learns the weaknesses and the needs of the ensuing target, because that is what I was target. My abusers are driven by three things sex, obsession and power not nessecery in that order. Once those needs and weaknesses have been discovered the perpetrator will play on those needs. I was treated like an adult, which I think most fourteen year olds like to think they are. More mature beyond their years. I maybe totally wrong in which case I will refer only to my grooming.

My relationship with my parents had more or less totally broken down and I was made to feel that Denning actually cared and really wanted to help. On occasions it even got to the point where I was sleeping on a local railway station at the age of fourteen, because of the rows with my father. It was during this period that my father considered having me taken away by Social Services. Looking back at that situation it would seem I would have been “out of the frying pan into the fire” especially after glancing at The Waterhouse Report. I recently gained some insight into my own adult dysfunctional behavior by watching the award wining drama “Care” written by Kieran Prendiville. The drama tells the story of Davey (actor Steven Mackintosh) and his attempts to block out the abuse that had happened to him whilst he was in care. It shows the pressure he is under when the trial he is part of collapses and his abuser escapes conviction. It also portrays his relationships with others, it ultimately shows his death by way of vodka, painkillers and possible drowning through the guilt of assaulting his supportive partner. Bells really did started ringing at that point. That could have so easily been about me, the story is a parallel to my own only the surroundings were different. The similarities between Davey and myself where quite unreal even down to the way he carried himself. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end."

See and Read more of Dan's Story - Click Here

Posted by Nealus at August 11, 2004 06:42 PM

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