My experience of childhood sexual abuse and why I want to help others to speak out and heal

Bev is a qualified counsellor at Sue Lambert Trust with lived experience of childhood sexual abuse.  She’s chosen to share her story, in her own words, in the hope of inspiring others to seek help, to heal, and to raise awareness of the growing need for specialist, therapeutic support for victims of abuse.  

*** Before reading on, please be aware this story contains personal details of Bev’s experience of abuse, and may be triggering. ***

I was a very ordinary girl, from a very ordinary family.

When I was five, my family moved to Norfolk, and we lived in a little village where my parents and grandparents worked hard in their own business.

My Mum had MS. I was a responsible and well-behaved child, my brother was good too, it was a pleasant enough childhood.

But school was different.

The person who abused me, for years, was the headmaster of my primary school and also my piano teacher. From the age of six until I was 14, he groomed me and behaved inappropriately towards me.

What exactly does that mean? I don’t exactly remember. My “forgettery” is better than my memory, thank goodness, though my body remembers in ways that my mind does not.

The piano was in our dining-room; down a long corridor, away from everybody else. Attending weekly lessons for years, because I was a child prodigy, apparently, it led on to organ lessons, choir practise, organ recitals with him …and so on.

Were these lessons an opportunity for me to excel in music? Or a time and space where a child could be left alone with a man old enough to be her grandfather? A man who kissed a child as if she was a woman, in laybys on the way home. Who phoned her every day, brought gifts of sweets, put £500 in a bank account, and promised marriage after university.

I was groomed, and this behaviour went on, and on.  Using his authority as headmaster, he helped me pass my 11+ exam so I could go to grammar school, took it upon himself to talk to me about the facts of life, and when tragedy happened, he was the one who shared the awful news that my 10-year-old friend had died in a car accident.

When I found boyfriends my own age as a teenager, I started to respond to the unwanted attention from him. Of course, as a young child, I’d never actually told him it was ‘unwanted’, had I? How was I to know? I’d colluded with the fumbles, groping and kissing. It was all very confusing. He had told me I was special, called me darling, talked about our future. I was trapped. I turned my face. He didn’t stop.

As I started to recoil, the grown-ups expressed disappointment. No-one knew what was happening, they thought I should be grateful to this kind man who devoted time and effort to my education.  But I’d never told them what he did in the church when we were on our own. I kept the secret and hid my revulsion and shame. Only Sandy, my faithful teddy knew how miserable I was.

And so, it continued. He would be invited for Sunday Lunch. I’d instantly lose my appetite, and feeling ill, go to my room. He would insist on finding me in my room to say goodbye to me. And my family let him.

At the age of 13 or 14 friends started to remark how weird it was to be spending so much time with an older man, and that my family didn’t seem to mind. I was too ashamed and scared to reveal what really happened.

To try and get away, I deliberately started to do badly at school. I didn’t want to be good enough for A levels or university.  Success would lead to marriage to him. I couldn’t do that with him, could I?

I didn’t want any more attention, so I became the quiet one. Reading out some poetry in class, I was mortified that I didn’t understand the subtle reference to sex. The class laughed. They didn’t understand my distress and I didn’t want to draw any more attention to myself, so I internalised it and pretended to be ok. I did that a lot; actually, I still do – pretend to be ok.

Reluctantly, A’ levels began, because that’s what they all expected. But an opportunity to leave and go to work at Norwich Union came up, it was my escape.

And at 18, I married a boy in the village, who my family liked, but after three years I ended it. His loving attention made me squirm; and talk of our future and children reminded me so badly of that other time – I felt trapped all over again. My family took his side, so I moved away, and we broke contact for a couple of years. The first person in the whole family to divorce, I’d disappointed them so much.

I lurched between relationships, with one lasting for many years, but he was emotionally unavailable. By then I wanted children. He wouldn’t, and I couldn’t. I didn’t talk about it, pretending it was okay and avoiding friends when they had theirs. For a long time, I told myself it was a good thing, I’d have been a poor parent. My body seemed to agree. I’d need a hysterectomy in my 30’s.

Working was my saviour, keeping my mind busy and avoiding dark thoughts Starting a career at 17, I’d worked hard, earnt promotions and opportunities. But when the time came for the hysterectomy operation, I faced three months off work. I was presented with more time to sit with my thoughts, more time than I’d ever had before as an adult.

As I sat with my thoughts, and grieved the lost chance of being a mother, I felt intense anger too and couldn’t understand why. Sad – understandable, but angry? I started questioning and revisiting my childhood experience:

• Secrets and shame, inability to share my thoughts and feelings, always keeping distance for fear of being trapped and yet getting into risky situations and narrowly escaping harm.
• Disliking physical intimacy with a safe and available partner, flinching, freezing, not wanting to lose control or surrender to the moment, avoiding yet yearning for connection.
• Where were my grown-ups? Why didn’t they notice or query what was happening? Was I so unimportant? How was my brother affected? Did he resent me for being special and all the gifts and occasions? When my only friend at primary school disappeared to boarding school was there a darker reason?

I had no answers. So, I found a therapist and we started to talk. It was slow and painful, and I blamed myself for everything. I stopped talking and pretended I was ok – I was, mostly.

Then one Christmas, it all came to the surface as I talked to my uncle, who by now was in his 80’s. He and my aunt were quite fascinating, well-travelled, professional people, but I’d always been a little scared of them. He’d worked at Fleet Street on papers like Sporting Life, and she was glamorous and a Legal Secretary. He told me once that they’d been to a Mazola Corn Oil party. I didn’t know what he meant, and he explained they were all naked and … I told him I didn’t want to know any more and he took offence.  Once making a comment about me being promiscuous, I retorted that he and his wife, my parents and my grandparents were a “hard act to follow”. That shut him up.

At Christmas, after a few drams, he asked “What used to happen between you and that piano teacher?” I froze. “Me and Eileen often wondered” he went on “but we decided we couldn’t say anything because in those days we wouldn’t have been believed, you know, we’d have ended up in trouble.” I exploded. “You knew? You fucking knew something was wrong and you said nothing?”

There had been a rumour about him before, but no charges were brought. As a teacher, he was a pillar of society, a man of the church, respected and important.

A short while after our encounter, my uncle fell ill, and I felt guilty that I had caused it but couldn’t bring myself to visit him. Our relationship never recovered. He refused to give me away when I married and fell out with my mum. He died alone, sitting on the bottom step of his stairs a couple of years later.

And my mum – the last one left of the grown-ups. I was forever the dutiful daughter, always there to do her shopping and support her.  When she was in Addenbrookes I visited every day for about six months. But I don’t think she knew me at all. And maybe I didn’t know her.

When I retrained as a psychotherapist, she didn’t understand why. Not one to talk about her own problems, she probably didn’t get it. She came to my wedding, and I think she was pleased that I’d found happiness.

Since qualifying as a psychotherapist, I’ve been on my own journey of personal therapy which has helped me enormously to come to terms with what happened, to understand that my “forgettery” is a blessing to be celebrated and not something to worry about.

I’ve trained as an EMDR practitioner, which helps people to process unresolved trauma. I was terrified that all the layers of memory might unravel, but so far so good.

When supporting my clients, I’m able to hear and resonate with the stories people tell me of their own troubles without disturbing the ghosts of my past. I have a depth of understanding that doesn’t come from theory, about how trauma manifests and how we can heal the wounds. Helping others heal, keeps my hope and determination alive. As someone very wise once said, recovery is my best revenge.

Recently, I drove past the lay-by where I was regularly abused on the journey home from choir practise on Friday nights. And noticed my body respond. I am grateful that I now know its normal for the body to have memories the mind chooses to ignore. I’m not ignoring it anymore. And that is how I will heal.

Very recently, out of the blue, I met a woman whose story was uncannily like mine. Talking openly about our shared experiences, we worked out that I was not the only “special” one. I had never considered that there could be more victims after me because he was so old. This caused me to wobble. Should I have spoken up? Could I have saved her that horror? Did it get worse because I allowed it to happen? Hold on, I thought I was special, that he truly cared for me, I’ve felt guilty about hurting him. The adult part of me knows about grooming and coercive control, but the younger version of me didn’t and was completely duped.

More therapy has helped me. And this time I shared everything.  I couldn’t look at my therapist while I was talking. But when I dared to look up, the tears in her eyes helped me release mine.

I got really scared then. What if the shadows from the past somehow block me from doing the work that I love. What if somebody else finds out about my experience, and judges me? What will happen if my colleagues find out?

And then two things happened.

I heard a news report about the continued lack of regulation of private tutors and shockingly high levels of childhood sexual abuse still happening.

I want to tell my story so that children are better protected, and parents pay attention to who is interacting with their child.  Anyone with access to young people should be vetted and supervised, and that is every parent’s responsibility.

And I’ve been inspired by a friend’s bravery.

She has appeared on camera in the documentary about Al Fayed and Harrods and spoke out about what she witnessed, during her time working there. She met with other survivors and spoke out. Her courage has inspired me to speak out too.

I was an ordinary girl, and childhood sexual abuse happened to me.

By sharing my story, I hope I can help others to find the words to break their silence and to heal too.

Bev did not receive support from Sue Lambert Trust, but after accessing her own therapy privately, and training in psychotherapy, she has been supporting our clients as a counsellor, enabling survivors of abuse to heal.