Flashbacks, moi?

Just this morning I'd forgotten I'd told my wife I'd drop her off at our daughter's before going to work. This meant I was going to be fifteen minutes late for an appointment I'd arranged. No particular problem as my work schedule is fairly relaxed but I could feel a definite twinge of anxiety. I've learnt how to manage this over the last few years. Stay in the room, touch something, notice something maybe.

It stems from one lunchtime break at St Joseph's, the day I had to shut out a trauma. I had moved from the toilet block next to the gymnasium and was desperately trying to focus on whatever notices were pinned on the noticeboard there, without succeeding. The recently installed 'bleeper' had gone off, announcing the resumption of afternoon lessons. I knew my classmates would be lining up and I had to join them. I also knew that if I didn't do something immediately to keep myself calm, they'd spot my panic. I knew there would be the question, "Where have you been?" I'd have to think of something but more importantly, I must not be late. I mustn't. I have a feeling it was __'s class too. I think he came swanning past us as we queued to get into the middle of 'E block'.

Trauma is annoying, isn't it? Unnecessary trauma even more so. It's a common thing for car crash survivors not to recall the 'during impact' moment, as adrenaline apparently stops the 'recording' process so people only remember before and after. So I think my brain must have blanked out entire chunks of that particular year. I certainly have little snippets and with some help, I've recently had a few more things return.  Before that, all I had were odd little bits of  random memory, like someone coming into the toilet block screaming and ranting about smoking (I was twelve and hated the smell of smoke, though I took it up later, probably out of rebellion). Other kids being ordered out except for two or maybe three of us, Someone possibly being told to guard the door. Being made to wait and face the wall. The toilet cubicle to the left hand side. More recently, things I'd not recalled for about 45 years returned- a light blue short sleeved shirt comes to mind. Consulate and More cigarettes. I had totally forgotten those! It shows what's in there.  Those medicine balls in the gym and the relay  team games we did for PE.

I've worked out that all this relates to my 2nd year there because I could remember my 1st, 3rd and 4th year class teachers but had to ask a friend to remind me about the 2nd year. There were memories from 1st, 3rd and 4th years too but it occurred to me that 2nd year memories were strangely absent. Why was that?  He showed me a class photo with the form tutor I spoke about in the last blog surrounded by his class, me at the back giving my best 'smile everyone' fixed grin. I also reckon the being late thing happened in early autumn as only last year, I was enjoying a beautiful sunny, early autumn day. I was admiring a gorgeous horse chestnut and 'Boom!', a full on panic attack as soon as I got a waft of that autumn smell, the same smell we had in the playground near the gym, where that lovely big tree watched as I shook. 

My first experience of a flashback shocked me. It was when we all knew my Dad was dying. I knew what was coming since I'd witnessed my wife's father die of the same cancer.  I was at home and went to bed where suddenly I was reliving an incident that had happened in childhood. I was probably eight or nine when we heard news a lady in our area had committed suicide.  I hadn't heard that word before.  Shortly afterwards, my Dad, known for stomping off in a rage sometimes but always coming home, he disappeared off before bedtime and hadn't returned before I went to sleep. The next morning was school as usual and I didn't know he was safely home til I saw him that evening, same old cheery Dad as though nothing had happened. Well a flashback to that and I was reduced to a furiously angry child again but totally in shock as well that this memory had leapt out on me like that!  I couldn't explain what had just happened to my wife because I didn't understand it. How could my mind have kept that hidden all these years?  All of a sudden I became aware that I wasn't who I thought I was and more importantly, if my clever-clogs brain could conceal that for so long... what else was hiding itself in there?

Quite a lot it seems. In the last few years, I've become aware of such things as the body storing memories the brain has forgotten/blanked ( if you don't believe the experts, I can assure you the red patch from an eye injury my daughter suffered when she was tiny reappears if she's upset and trust me, you don't want to upset her), Slowly but surely, as I piece the jigsaw of bits of memory together, more pieces appear one way or another. 

Remember, I have spent so many years trying to paint my ideal life  so my instinct is to avoid creating a narrative of abuse. And I'm certainly not interested in telling lies because a) it's WRONG and b) I learnt early on, lying helps nobody, least of all yourself.   But the more I let go and allow this process to happen, the more the pieces are showing a picture I really don't want to see. And there's simply no getting away from it; I wish I could.  It all points to one thing and one person. Childhood sexual abuse by __.

As I type, it also occurs to me that my final (5th) year there is also a bit of a hazy mess of angst as far as memories go, but I trust more will return now that process seems to have begun.  One thing I will definitely savour forever though is my final glorious day (well I don't think we got as far as 9.30 a.m) at St Joseph's and a deliciously satisfying exit. 

Working it out

I get it, life is tough for millions around the world. My Mum's stock response to us kids when we complained,  'It's not fair!' was always, 'Life's not fair'.  A valuable lesson for sure. However as that's the case, the responsibility of us all is to do our utmost to make it fairer before we exit the planet. So calling out past wrongdoing falls within that brief since it's come to my attention.

How so? 

Looking back, I can now see a pattern. Things I rationalised at the time as normal behaviours or just 'bad days' I now know were symptoms of being abused.

Speaking of symptoms, l'll start there. The trouble with GP's is they only look at what's immediately presenting. They don't normally look back at your medical history and join the dots. To be fair, neither did I. Now then, a list: I don't have anxiety problems because I went to the doc about that in my 20's. She gave me breathing exercises. Nor depression because we don't have that in the family, do we. It must have been those antimalarials except one day it was so bad, I gave in and accepted some prozac. Instantly better! Depression gone. Kind of. Maybe. Almost forgot- that high blood pressure. Oh yeah, and the sleep disorder. And the things I haven't bothered getting seen to like the shaking to stay calm and the fear of being late. And this. And that. And something else. 

And one heart op and cancer radiotherapy later ... yay, he's fine! Alive enough to write another paragraph anyway.

Oh and the dissociative behaviour. Huh? Oh and did I mention the same but more severe inexplicable major panic attack during a family gathering when everyone started talking about how great my Dad was? What the hell was that about?  My Dad being talked about so reverently flipped me out somehow so badly for about 48 hours the entire family must have been ready to call the psychiatric unit. I now realise that deep down, he hadn't been able to protect me from __ because __ had made sure to weedle his way into Dad's social circle, much to my complete and utter horror. Now I had no safe place and began rebelling, refusing to go to school.*

Rewinding now to a time in my 20's when I'd just got my first job. I'd stopped the excessive boozing after breaking off a long-term relationship (she'd hinted I had issues). Everything was hunky-dory at last. On my own, happily drawing or something with the telly on in the background when Anglia news comes on. There's an interview with some Cambridge examination board bloke who begins speaking. I look up and instantly fly into an uncontrollable rage. It's my old second year form teacher from St Joseph's. What the hell is happening here? I want to throw a brick at the TV screen. I manage to switch it off and know something is deeply wrong. Why am I in such a panic? I never liked him but it wasn't him was it? Was it?? 

Now I was really confused. This wasn't __. What if they'd both been up to no good?  I never liked this guy because he accused me of cheating my homework by copying.  In fact I'd asked my (now hard-working) older brother to explain the lesson again which he did, helping me work out the ten problems without giving the answers. I confidently handed in ten correct answers next day and was soon hauled up in front of class by this caustic weasel (no offence to weasels) who simply refused to believe I was capable of understanding anything.  More likely, he either couldn't teach or there was zero respect in the room.  Anyway, this mere unfortunate incident was the norm for St. Joseph's and by no means severe enough to cause me to want to pulverise the TV about ten years later.  So what was my problem? Was it because he had been the year leader under whose watch I should have been safe? Maybe but that was one hell of a shock to me.

I remember one time in the mid to early 90's I felt compelled to drive to St Joseph's to try and discover what was eating at me inside. Perhaps a wander round would jog my memory. I went into the chapel. I knew I had to forgive __ for something but all I could remember apart from the frequent, almost ritual humiliation in class and living in utter fear and hatred of of the guy, was that I and two others were detained after class for not doing our homework and given three sharp whacks on the palm of the hand with a steel ruler as punishment.  That, I could understand. It was NFSJ, normal for St Joseph's. There was something else much more disturbing I couldn't fathom at that point. I said a prayer out loud and walked away feeling a bit lighter that I'd done what I could.  But now it was becoming harder to ignore the fact something had happened. Still though, I refused to fully acknowledge that dark something without 'evidence' or rather memory, so it remained pushed down.

One therapist I saw said I was carrying some heavy burdens I needed to put down. Great, Thanks for telling me what I know already. (By the way St Joseph's, who do I send the bill to for counselling?)  The next attempt, I told my story and she started crying. Thanks but no thanks! 

I'm damn well going to get through this crap one way or another and if it helps someone else through theirs, so much the better.

Helping Hands

This is never easy. Someone wants to know what year I went to St. Joseph's. I don't wish to be rude but I don't think my legal advice would be too impressed were I to answer questions from unidentifiable users asking for more detailed information than I'm giving on here.  It may well be an innocent request but for some strange reason, my trust and hyper-vigilance levels have always been in the wrong places so I'll pass if you don't mind.  However if you need to share your experiences and haven't yet done so, I can thoroughly recommend NAPAC  who listened to me when I rang in a state of deep confusion, gave brilliant advice and helped me begin this painful process. Sadly, they're often busy but do keep ringing. If you're a partner of an ex St. Jo's boy too, they're there for you. 

Yes, a massive shout out to our spouses/partners and families as they've had to put up with far too much of the fallout nonsense. Thank you for being there x.

Having said that, I've a list here of about 80 of my year group names I can easily reel off 'Moggs" register-style. If you're one of them or jog my memory with a name I've forgotten and can verify your ID, it might be possible to correspond but don't hold your breath.   

As I've said, the reason for writing this blog is primarily for my brain to come to terms with my actual life history as opposed to the rose-tinted one I've come to realise was just my survival technique. Frankly, I would much prefer closure, cracking on with life as quickly as possible and not having my brain demanding the past be properly addressed.  

Well that's not what I was going to write today but be well if you're in recovery. Be well. 

Beginning

I had left Oak Hill prep school a happy and inquisitive ‘A-stream’ child with a prize for one particular subject and a bit nippy in a race. I remember going to the open day at Birkfield, feeling a mixture of trepidation and excitement at this new chapter of my life. My older brother was there and he showed me round the place. In the gymnasium there was some kind of fête going on with a tombola, mouse racing, ‘bat the rat’ and bizarrely on the stage, I remember what appeared to be a competition to determine which of four or five boys could hold their breath for the longest in a bucket of water. 

What japes these ‘big boys’ get up to, egged on by a shouty and excitable De La Salle brother, sleeves rolled up and armed with a stopwatch while whipping up his audience. 

Cheeks bulge with drawn breaths. And go!... Heads splash into water. 

Fifteen seconds pass.  Great sport! After the crowd counts to twenty, the first boy comes up. An impressive thirty-eight seconds.  Now, "Jones" is up!...now "Mathieson!"... who will win ladies and gentlemen? 

One minute! Concern now. The contest is between "Jackson" and "DaSouza"

The crowd chants, "Jackson! Jackson!" 

One minute and fifteen...twenty now.... Jackson's hair flails water across the stage as he rises, red and gasping.

The De La Salle Brother, possibly Brother Peter who would years later take a swing for me, drunk on macho celebrity, plays the crowd whilst missing the mood. This is extraordinary! How long can DaSouza hold? Two minutes pass! Everyone knows something is wrong. I remember being hastily ushered out having caught sight of a blue-faced casualty on stage. This boy doesn't think he wants to come to this school really.

That was a portent of what was to come. I think it was either Brother Peter* or Brother Cuthman who, when I was introduced on my first day proper at St Joseph's, asked what my surname was. When I told him he snorted with disdain and said , "Oh really, well I hope you're going to work harder than your brother then".  

Now at the 'University of Life' I have learned a fair few things (I graduated long before being accepted simply by surviving five years at St. Joseph's). One of those things is to do with treating people kindly and not judging them immediately. Because that's the kind of thing that can piss off even the happiest-go-lucky of children. 

Was there a note in the De La Salle Handbook of Incompetent Teaching that stated, "Rule 1, Day 1: Seize every opportunity to insult the new boy's family, causing him to think, 'You bastard!' even though he doesn't yet know that word. For good measure, make him wonder for the first time ever what you'll do if he refuses to comply because of your rudeness. Well done. Have a whisky"?

Okay. So into the first year we head and (Credit where due) a decent 'brother' to ease us all into the rigours and expectations of secondary school. I must have elected to put the comment behind me and crack on with my academic efforts. These were measured by the regular dishing out of "testimonials". OMG, I'd forgotten those insane certificates until now! 

They were dished out with great gravitas. Gold (yellow) for the top achievers of the month or possibly fortnight I think it was. Then a tranche of white testimonials for your fair to middlings and for the underachieving 'dunces' in the room, the almost gleeful ritual humiliation of awarding the BLUE TESTIMONIAL to usually the same three of four kids presumably well on their way to a career in alcoholism. 

Thing is chaps, I was GOLD testimonial material but one of my best mates at the time was a blue boy. This, to my young mind, represented inequality and unjust treatment as prohibited by Jesus himself according to RE lessons. So what was a boy to make of, "If you don't work hard, you'll never get a good job" followed by, "God favours the poor over the rich". Wait! What?  

I may have been only eleven but I knew damn well that many of my friends had dads who hated their 'good jobs'. Still, crack on, work hard for that job in the army, air force, navy or banking, and hey, just ignore the fact we're all going to die at any minute when either the Russians or Americans nuke us all (unless we get under a kitchen table or the door we've hastily ripped from its hinges (makes 'Control the Virus' look a bit tame!)). 

So, welcome to St Joseph's.  Motto: Labore Et Tenacitate - "Work and stick to it". 

I notice that in more recent years they've tacked on Fides - fidelity.  This is something of a sick joke to me since St Joseph's, I know now, is accountable for its pedophile past. The school back then was without a shred of empathy for anyone with any creativity. I would say it's only my creative imagination that saved me by enabling me to invent and for years believe in a much rosier past, conveniently blanking out the traumatic.  

To those who peddle the 'false memory' narrative, insisting that sexual abuse survivors imagine their ordeals, I can testify any "embellishment" we add to our stories is that which lessens the ordeal to make it easier to cope, not that which adds to it.  What possible benefit to a survivor of sexual abuse (which, by the way, isn't solely physical touch) would exaggerating a trauma bring exactly?  

We are daily witnessing a worldwide uncovering of abuses committed. Survivors aren't staying silent any more. 

Many of us are simply about setting the record straight. Revenge is not in my playbook otherwise I would have called in the vigilantes and destroyed __'s house several times over. The longer the perpetrators remain covered, the more damage is done so if you were involved in crimes or are still covering for abuses committed at St. Joseph's, now is your opportunity to speak up. Seriously. Begin that process. 

*Few of these "Brothers" ever had surnames. Interesting that; as a layer of protective anonymity. At Oak Hill there was Bro. John Fisher so obviously it was an option.

My Story

Here we go then. I was a pupil at St Joseph's College, Birkfield, Ipswich. This blog is part of my attempt to work through what, in recent years, has become painfully obvious; that I was subjected to some serious abuse at that school by a teacher, abuse I had to blank out in order to survive. I shall refer to him as __ . I can show you the exact spot I stood on, shaking with shock and remember having to decide there and then that in order to get back to my friends and appear "normal" I was going to have to do something I instinctively felt was wrong. There was no option,  no place for what had just happened to be filed. I had to decide to try and shut down the area of my brain that dealt with memory.  It was "wrong", I knew that in my young Roman Catholic head, but not as wrong as the trauma that needed to not be true as urgently as possible and by any means possible.

My contemporaries will likely recognise the individual responsible for causing such a reaction and if any happen upon this blog and care to comment, by all means do.  I have been reading an excellent blog by Pat Mills (another former St Joseph's pupil) on Wordpress in which several similar stories have been related so I now know there was a culture of abuse; mental, emotional, physical and sexual. 

Doubtless there are many former pupils who experienced no problems whatsoever during their time at St Joseph's and I thank God that's so! In fact, one of the many contributing factors to my slowly becoming aware that something in my past was seriously awry was the fact that when comparing notes re. schooldays with the few friends I have stayed in touch with, it was always blindingly obvious that I was carrying a huge burden of grief when conversation turned to our experiences. 

Mention of __ always made me angry and I didn't know why, as I laughed along to tales of our antics. Why was I laughing when I spent every day there wanting to be somewhere else? I'd tried to remain as invisible as possible, watching the clock and desperate to get back to the safety of home. Safe, that was, until __ made it his business to "pal" up with my Dad. I recognise this now as the classic controlling tactic of the abuser. At the time, it did exactly what __ intended; it kept the fear and control level ramped up to the max so that not only in school could I be intimidated into silence but also at home.

My silence ended a year or two ago when enough memory had returned to convince me to report firstly to a rape crisis centre and then to the police.  I noticed that this guy was still around ( I'm in my 60's now but __ was just a young teacher back then) and it bothered me that he might still be abusing now. I couldn't bear the thought of some other case coming to light a few years hence with me having kept quiet now.  

I'll leave it there for today but there is so much more to tell. If you were at St. Joseph's and struggle today because of that, you have my sincere sympathies.