Inside I am Still Screaming

A story from a boy who was tortured for ten years by his mother.

A SHORT SLICE OF A TORTURED LIFE.

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1. Crazy ? Maybe!!

Inside I am still screaming

I feel the terror again, my testicles ache, my anus throbs and my stomach feels like it has dropped out of my body, still I ask myself, did it really happen, is it some imagined fantasy that my twisted mind has tormented me with for nearly fifty years. I sometimes think that if it wasn’t for my sister who shared my horror I would talk myself out of it.

Baby P I read suffered enormous abuse before he died at the hands of those who were supposed to love him, why did I survive, there must be reason and purpose or is it all just some huge circumstance with no rhyme or reason?

To myself I am an unremarkable man of 52, as write this I am sat in my home office with my Siamese cat sat on my lap showing me some love. My wife whom I love dearly is busy with her art and my youngest son of 19 years old is in the kitchen cooking with his fiancée. A scene of domestic bliss, perhaps? But to me this is a fantasy that has become reality.

From the age of my earliest memory, that of my mother smashing my face into the inside of the wardrobe door as she was ‘helping’ me to learn the alphabet I have lived in terror. My parent’s methods were I think fuelled by their own failures, from the outside we were an upper-class family living at this time in Nigeria. We were the pillars of the society we represented, Father was a big shot in the government of the day and Mother was a research professor with one of the country’s most prestigious establishments. Our house was huge, we were escorted to school, cosseted by all and lived what many would call a dream existence. Fear though exists in every space where it can find a place to grow, income and status are no bar to abuse, fear and terror.

As a child I would fall asleep thanking someone, I was never sure who, for the fact that I had survived another day. If it had been one with just a little kicking and punching I was always grateful, many times though it was worse, much worse. Strangulation was one of her favourite persuasion methods, her medical training always enabled her to stop just as we passed out and just in time for her to revive us. It was the same with the drowning;

I would stand trembling with a mixture of sheer terror and cold as she made me strip whilst watching her run a bath of freezing water. Even though I wanted to run I could not, it was like the dreams when you cannot run from the certainty of death, but this was real. In a frozen dream I would obey as she ordered me into the bath, and then passively lie down as she held me under the water, hours later I would awake in my bed and wonder whether my sister had also survived. The hanging and stabbing were worse I think but after ten years of constant abuse and torture it becomes very hard to decide.

I am then a survivor, maybe not so unremarkable after all. Not only that but I am also a professional man, have travelled the world, experienced the beauty and sadness of others and still I live. A few months ago I made a decision; I would pursue the abuser that nearly killed me so often in my life, which made it still a terrible place to be in this world. I still wake up every day grateful that I am still here but now when I look around I see my wife who loves her older husband that has so many strange hang-ups.

My children, I have five, have never experienced terror at my hands, they all live lives that are free of major hang-ups and are making their own way in the world. They sometimes fall out with me, sometimes love me fiercely but like I said they are part of my own real fantasy, a real family with real normality.

My journey to this space has taken me into the prison cell, the temples, the avarice of life and finally through three marriages to peace and acceptance. If I say I would not swap my journey I would be lying, nobody wants to experience hell but I survived and through some miracle I am even reasonably sane. Each and every day of my life i am reminded of the abuse i suffered as i struggle for the first trip downstairs with shins that still ache from the kicking and ankles that are stiffened due to the breaks they suffered when i was a child and she never had treated.

She is eighty this year and she has still not said sorry.
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