What I Don't Know
(And Some Things I Do)
Dear Rob,
Write what you know.
That’s what they say.
It is a cliche and I -unlike you- am not a writer.
So I will start instead with what I do not know:
I do not know what it is like to have been a victim of Childhood Sexual Abuse. I grew up in a loving and supportive family. I had my problems, several of which we shared. I, like you, struggled throughout my childhood with attachment problems and with undiagnosed autism. While my needs were managed by my family and primary school, yours required specialist intervention.
And so, at the age of ten, after your former prep school found your emotional and behavioural problems too challenging, you were forced to find a school better-able to meet your needs. I have listened many times to the testimony you gave via the Truth Project to the Independent Inquiry into Childhood Sexual Abuse. You recall your initial thoughts upon visiting the (then recently-founded) residential school you would later attend and your early memories of your time there. You speak of rolling hills and countryside; of an historic manor house nestled in an idyllic landscape; of the promise of weekly ‘grown-up’ dinners following talks given by prominent public speakers; of dormitories waking to the sound of Vaughan Williams playing through the speakers. You recall being drawn to the friendliness of the man who would later abuse you. A man who ostensibly founded a school to help vulnerable boys and provide a place of safety, stability, structure and support to those who had failed to thrive in mainstream education.
I do not know the extent to which it was coincidence that in doing so, a man with a paraphilic predilection for pre- and peri-pubescent boys gained such extensive access to an entire school of them. Forgive me my skepticism, but experience tells me that mere coincidence (or serendipity for the predators hiding among us) rarely leads to such a perfect coming together of predator and prey.
I do not know what it feels like to be groomed. You go on to describe the details to the best of your ability despite your somewhat fuzzy recollection of what was a long and subtle process. What resonates more deeply are your personal reflections on your feelings throughout the process. After years of consideration and cognitive dissonance you had the bravery to unapologetically proclaim that it felt good. It felt great to be groomed. That phrase is uncomfortable to read, let alone hear you say out loud. But to hear it is to begin to understand it. For a vulnerable, troubled child who struggled to make friends and grew up passed from one nanny to the next, the attention and ‘affections’ of your abuser drew you in. He told you you were special, he made you feel wanted. He made you believe that you wanted him. I do not know how it feels to be groomed, but I understand why you go on to say that the grooming was more damaging than the abuse itself.
I do not know what it is like to go through life every day suffering from Complex PTSD. I have seen firsthand the damage inflicted upon you by a man you should have been able to trust. A man who should have protected you and cared for you. A man who, instead, chose to rape you.
I have seen the scars on your arms and legs (and felt my heart swell with pride upon seeing a photograph of you -just shy of your 40th birthday- enjoying a holiday with an old friend: wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt and shorts for the first time).
I have listened as you revealed details of your life during the many years before we met. I think perhaps you felt obliged to provide me with ‘fair warning’ before I committed to being with you. You spoke of your early descent into alcoholism; of your dangerous and self-destructive behaviour as a young man; of your attempts on your life and subsequent hospitalisations.
I have grown used to seeing you jump at the slightest unexpected sound or touch. I have spent hours and days and weeks watching you shrink into yourself. Episodes of dissociation during which your whole body jerks and shakes, you struggle to string a sentence together -to breathe- and you disappear into some dark place, deep inside your mind. I do not know where you go when you disappear. I do not know how long you will be gone for or how to help bring you back. All I can do is stroke your balding head and try to make sure you know that I will still be here when you are ready to come back. I will always be here.
But often, I do not know how you are still here.
This is a sentiment I sometimes share with you: an acknowledgment of your quiet if sometimes shaky strength; a reminder of the storms you have already weathered when new ones appear on the horizon. I do not know how you are still here, but somehow you are. I can’t quite put into words how grateful I am for that.
I do not know what I hope to gain from publishing this. It is in part an attempt to document my thoughts and experiences of loving a man who was groomed, sexually abused and raped as a child. It is in part an attempt to lift up my voice alongside his: in solidarity and in love. In part it is my private and personal letter to you, the man I love. Perhaps above all it is nothing more than the very public ramblings of someone screaming into the ether: quietly hoping to be heard.
I do not know if anybody is out there listening. Really listening. But for anyone who is, this is what I DO know:
Against all odds, I have the privilege of spending my life with one of the strongest, bravest, kindest men one could wish to meet. When he speaks, he is not motivated by bitterness or dreams of revenge or expectations of justice. When he speaks, he speaks on behalf of those who have suffered like him and for those who may suffer in the future if we don’t listen to him; heed his warnings; learn from his experiences; and commit ourselves fully to protecting children from abuse. It may not be comfortable. It may hurt our slick and carefully-crafted PR image to admit our past failings. But our discomfort bears no resemblance to the harm done if we fail to stand up and speak out now.
All my love,
E
