"Letters Of Truth" & RLSS Catholic "Safeguarding"

It's exhausting to have to write this but I will push through it because people should know what tactics the Catholic Church and De La Salle use to avoid responsibility to survivors.

Fairly recently, I reluctantly approached the Religious Life Safeguarding Service, RLSS, after reading that they might hold some influence with De La Salle. I say reluctantly because I've had dealings in the past with the utterly useless Catholic organisation, Safe Spaces. Annoyingly, despite some initial promise, RLSS present themselves as equally useless and their "safeguarding" is so obviously all about ticking boxes for soothing the Catholic Church's conscience. 

I say that because although RLSS did manage to arrange some counselling sessions for me, funded by DLS (it seems, rather reluctantly), one would think any proper safeguarding agency worth its salt would surely follow up with the question, "How did it go?" or "How are you doing now?/Is there anything more we can do?" if not out of concern for the survivor, then surely, at least for their own self-evaluation to see if it was money well spent?  Are measurable outcomes/evaluations not a thing in the Catholic Church? 

After extracting as much personal information from me as possible, RLSS arranged funding for twelve sessions with (after my insistence) a counsellor I trusted. This actually did help me piece together a better understanding of the timeline of abuse at St Joseph's by _ (who I've now named online and will be blogging more about soon) and it enabled me to update my statement to police, giving a much more detailed account of events.  However, it was then tumbleweed from RLSS.  Zero follow up for several months and a basic lack of human decency rattled me a bit, I must confess, and I felt I still needed more therapy. 

So I emailed them asking if any further help was available.  They responded with "What do you need?" (Still no "how did it go/how are you?"). They offered to "help" me write a "Letter of Truth" to De La Salle. As you can see though, I can probably manage my own words. 

Accordingly, I fired off quite a long letter outlining just a few of the main consequences of Child Sexual Abuse at  St Joseph's. Ipswich and eventually I received, several weeks later, via RLSS, a carefully composed, presumably lawyer-checked, whining apology that included this stunning gem: "The betrayal of our mission by individuals within our ranks has caused (us) immense hurt...". Oh well done chaps, make it all about you then. My heart bleeds!  Breathtakingly ignorant, in my view, of how to speak to a survivor! This just sums up the level of slithery deceit and dishonesty I have come to associate with Catholicism.  And clearly, supposedly celibate men still have no idea how community is supposed to function. 

Anyway, the RLSS got me thinking. What DO I need?  I mean, I could keep getting therapy until the cows come home. What I really desperately need is closure. What does that look like? To me, it looks like a physical thing I can go to/ touch/ see every time I get a panic attack (most mornings). Something I can say of, "This represents an end to the trauma. This represents acknowledgement that I have been heard and that the matter is now closed." ....  So I told them a house by the sea, a grand piano and some recording equipment ought to do it.  

RLSS responded saying they don't get involved in compensation claims and 'here's the DLS solicitor's contact details'. DLS also said in their so-called apology, "We also recognise that words alone cannot repair the harm done..."

So, pull your fingers out De La Salle! DO MORE THAN WORDS! 

GIVE SURVIVORS THE CLOSURE WE'RE ASKING FOR!

It's not difficult, and will probably only cost you about the same as you spend on those navel-gazing global conferences trying to work out what your mission is!  THIS is your bloody mission! Put survivors of your abuse before 'outreach', before 'evangelism', before I have to write another blog.

Amen?

As for RLSS. I gave them a chance. They blew it big time.

Running Towards Adversity.

After a bit of therapy and 5 pages of a more detailed,  updated statement to police, it's good, at least, to have a much clearer understanding of what happened to me  (and obviously many others) at the hands / under the "care" of De la Salle abusers.  I make no apology for deliberately linking the word 'abusers' to their schools link there because they continue to abuse us by not coming out with a clear, very public statement on their past criminality. Until that happens, I owe it to myself and others to ignore their happy, shiny image projecting and show the world that NOTHING HAS CHANGED while they continue to try the patience of survivors. 

I am a pretty patient guy but the older I get, the thinner it wears.  All they have to do is engage. Why not put a page up on their web site about what they're doing to deal with the sins of the past? Pro tip: it makes you look authentic. Only an idiot is fooled by a flawless image. 

Meanwhile, so much new information comes to light recently, I am having to process plenty.

I go running to try and process stuff. Also to exorcise the demons that plague my body, my nights and my tired waking hours. I run, not only to try and shore up my mental health, but as a kind of prayer for all those who've either died without any justice or are so broken by the dreadful Catholic Church, they can't get anywhere.  But even running itself can be quite triggering as that was the one thing I adored at St Joseph's before I was forced to give it up to avoid contact with _.  

Now I can smell jam! I've just realised I'm slightly triggered by raspberry jam too!  Jam sandwiches were generally what was on offer in the canteen on the evenings I stayed behind at school to train.  I've some memory of running for St Joseph's at Royal Hospital School, Holbrook, somewhat overwhelmed by the sheer scale of an inter-schools event, not being sure which races I was in or which point to go to in its vast sports fields, crowded with competitors I'd never seen before, some looking like giants I was to run against.  I believe _ was there too, pretending to be a teacher, chivvying and not exactly helping me prepare. When it dawned on me that any success on the track was being held up as St Joseph's own triumph, I quit. I wasn't giving anyone that satisfaction, least of all Mr _.

It's beginning to feel as though my reluctance to name _ is at breaking point. I've only got so many years left and I don't have any particular reason to withhold his name except to allow police to do their thing, which I think they have now.  I'll hang on a little while longer in case anyone else does come forward.

Soon I will shout it from the rooftops. It's my call, luckily!

 

Child Rape at St Joseph's, Ipswich.

After a few sessions of therapy, I'm now much better able to make sense of what happened to me at St Joseph's and when I said to my therapist, I couldn't be 100% certain I've got my story straight, she replied that she knew me well enough now and could tell me what happened to me. Furthermore, she stated she'd be happy to testify in court, if necessary.  So, that said, I can confidently state that this happened:  I was in the toilet block opposite the gymnasium with a two or more friends towards the end of a lunch break. There was some shouting, some people were ordered out and the door was shut.  I was held down by an accomplice (probably an older prefect) over a toilet in one of the cubicles, a handkerchief was stuffed in my mouth and "soothing" words along the lines of orders not to struggle were spoken as I was buggered by _.  It was after that that I have the memory of standing by the noticeboard on the gym wall, desperately trying to process what had just taken place and taking the awful decision to just shut down my memory in order to carry on with my school day and appear as normal to my friends. 

Last week I was sharing this story with friends, one of whom is a secondary teacher.  For the first time in 50+ years I heard these words, "Your decision to shut down was absolutely the right decision".  Very validating words indeed coming all these years later from the first person I regard as being "in authority".

She then went on to say that she'd been a pupil at Chantry High School, just opposite St Joe's, and remarked that she and her friends were often in town and always used to wonder why "those privileged St Joe's kids all seemed so messed up".

It seems barely a week goes by now without some new tale of woe relating to St Joseph's reaches my ears.    I was working for a client and the conversation turned to her place of employment; a boarding school.  I said, "Oh, I went to one of those but thankfully just a day boy."  My heart sank to the floor when she responded with, " My brother went to St. Joseph's in Ipswich. He was an absolute little sh*t! My parents were constantly having to go in to sort something out." I bit my tongue because she'd just shared some other troubles and I didn't want to add to her distress.  But I'll say what I thought here: my money is on her brother having been abused.  We're talking 1990's here. The era when Francis Carolan was there, I believe.   I'm referring to the guy whose trial was last April but whose case was never heard because he killed himself while on remand,  just before the trial began. 

Pat Mills, has also shared on his blog that St Joseph's are currently engaged in trying to get old boys to sign up to their alumni.  For some not-very-strange reason, not many old boys seem very willing to sign up so they sought out the help of one former pupil, presumably more prominent than I. He slapped them down for trying to minimise the legacy of the abuses that De La Salle have covered up ever since. 

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.