Child Abuse ~ The Impact
The Trusted Uncle
This painting depicts my uncle, who according to my mother-had sexually abused both my sister and I, when we were both small infants. Mother had relayed this information to me when I was twenty one. And although I had a vague memory of being looked after by an old couple as an infant. I did not remember anything about my uncle. Mother had told me, that her brother “Had gotten into trouble with the authorities, because some nosey, bastard neighbours had reported him for 'Messing in our nappies'. She also told me that he used to sexually abuse her when she was a little girl and that he had 'Brain problems'.
She also said- that this was the real reason that my sister and I had been temporarily placed in care. And not because we had an infestation of head lice as we had been previously told. I also learned that my uncle died of a brain haemorrhage/ Caused by falling and striking his head onto heavy machinery during a fight with a work colleague.
Whilst mother told this story to me, I did not ask her any relevant questions or to elaborate on this unsettling news. At the time, I was already extremely depressed and I didn't want any more distress added to my fragile and unstable mind.
In the years that I spent painting my story of abuse, I was looking through the few family photos that I had in my possession. One of the things that struck me, was the fact that whilst all this abuse, pain and trauma occurred on a daily basis. There we were, portrayed as a typical,happy family, caught on camera-for all to see. I wanted to correct that warped perception. To expose the truth and reality of the lies and deceit. Of what truly lies beneath these happy family images. So, I rendered a typical family portrait. And- charged with subconscious emotions, I applied my true feelings without any conscious thought. Through my brush and onto a blank, empty space. Thus creating this image, which is a manifestation of my emotional trauma. The main theme of this painting is of innocence and trust destroyed, by a family members psychopathy and sexual gratification. The uncles smile depicts his malevolence, his eyes do not smile, only the mouth. Which contains exaggerated clenched teeth and thinly stretched, black lips. His power and control over the infant are illustrated by his elongated fingers and firm grip on the infants upper arm. Whereas his other arm and hand are somewhat relaxed and are of normal proportions. Attempting to conceal the blood that is seeping from the infants nappy. Thus portraying his fine art of deception. Meanwhile, the child lies on its back , arms outstretched. Conveying vulnerability and the total trust of a familiar face. Also, the inability to comprehend what is happening, voiceless and defenceless in the arms of pure evil.
She also said- that this was the real reason that my sister and I had been temporarily placed in care. And not because we had an infestation of head lice as we had been previously told. I also learned that my uncle died of a brain haemorrhage/ Caused by falling and striking his head onto heavy machinery during a fight with a work colleague.
Whilst mother told this story to me, I did not ask her any relevant questions or to elaborate on this unsettling news. At the time, I was already extremely depressed and I didn't want any more distress added to my fragile and unstable mind.
In the years that I spent painting my story of abuse, I was looking through the few family photos that I had in my possession. One of the things that struck me, was the fact that whilst all this abuse, pain and trauma occurred on a daily basis. There we were, portrayed as a typical,happy family, caught on camera-for all to see. I wanted to correct that warped perception. To expose the truth and reality of the lies and deceit. Of what truly lies beneath these happy family images. So, I rendered a typical family portrait. And- charged with subconscious emotions, I applied my true feelings without any conscious thought. Through my brush and onto a blank, empty space. Thus creating this image, which is a manifestation of my emotional trauma. The main theme of this painting is of innocence and trust destroyed, by a family members psychopathy and sexual gratification. The uncles smile depicts his malevolence, his eyes do not smile, only the mouth. Which contains exaggerated clenched teeth and thinly stretched, black lips. His power and control over the infant are illustrated by his elongated fingers and firm grip on the infants upper arm. Whereas his other arm and hand are somewhat relaxed and are of normal proportions. Attempting to conceal the blood that is seeping from the infants nappy. Thus portraying his fine art of deception. Meanwhile, the child lies on its back , arms outstretched. Conveying vulnerability and the total trust of a familiar face. Also, the inability to comprehend what is happening, voiceless and defenceless in the arms of pure evil.
Our Special Secret
His name was Don Cartwright. He was one of mothers boyfriends, who
sexually abused me between the ages of six and eight.
I portrayed him as a monstrosity because that's what he was.
He was my horror and something to fear. I could not hide from him, he would always come looking for me. He would always find me.
When he first began to abuse me, he told me not to tell anyone as it was 'Our special secret'. I felt bad, guilty and terribly ashamed about something I couldn't even name or understand. He told me that I was such a good girl during the abuse. And that it was all my fault because I was so pretty.
I painted myself without hands or a mouth to illustrate my vulnerability and helplessness as a victim, to this sexual and violent psychopath. And although I have no mouth, my eyes say it all. Full of fear and pleading with him to please stop. And despite having no hands, I am pressing and shielding my body with a cushion, in which the colour red depicts my pain.
I portrayed him as a monstrosity because that's what he was.
He was my horror and something to fear. I could not hide from him, he would always come looking for me. He would always find me.
When he first began to abuse me, he told me not to tell anyone as it was 'Our special secret'. I felt bad, guilty and terribly ashamed about something I couldn't even name or understand. He told me that I was such a good girl during the abuse. And that it was all my fault because I was so pretty.
I painted myself without hands or a mouth to illustrate my vulnerability and helplessness as a victim, to this sexual and violent psychopath. And although I have no mouth, my eyes say it all. Full of fear and pleading with him to please stop. And despite having no hands, I am pressing and shielding my body with a cushion, in which the colour red depicts my pain.
She Likes It!
This painting depicts one of mothers boyfriends, Don. Whom she had met in a pub where she worked as a barmaid. Within a few months, she left my father and moved my three siblings and I into his house.
Although he had been sexually abusing my sister and I for quite a while and in secret. This image signifies the first time that he openly abused us in front of mother. I think that many adults assume that very young children will not or cannot remember sexual abuse when they become adults themselves. Unfortunately, I remember every single detail.
I can recall that particular morning with great clarity. Because, when you are traumatised to that extent, your five senses are heightened to an exceptional degree. You are frozen in time itself, which trickles in never ending, slow motion.
That Sunday morning, as my sister and I came out of our shared bedroom. Don called us into their bedroom. Mother was sat at her dressing table, applying her make-up.
Don, who was completely naked, patted the bed and beckoned us in. We obeyed; as we obeyed all adults. And, after some hugs and squeezes, Don began to fondle and masturbate my sister and I simultaneously, in front of mother. I can vividly remember the black, oily patch, grained into the wallpaper above the bed, where he rested his brylcreemed hair. And his huge, nicotine stained, clumsy fingers as they fondled and penetrated me. I can still see his rotten teeth and breath as his laughter turned into a smokers cough, when mother turned towards us and asked him ~
“Why are you doing that to them?”
To which he stated the obvious ~
“Because they like it!”
He then joked ~
“What's the matter love- you jealous?!”
He burst into laughter and told her ~
“Don't worry love, there's plenty to go round!”
Paralysed, in utter abhorrence, I searched my mothers face for an indication of anger or disapproval of this man's actions. I wanted and needed some kind of protective intervention...something.
All that she could muster, was a solitary 'Tut' And a half hearted ~
“Leave them alone”
She then turned back to her mirror and continued putting her face on.
Here, I portray Don as a selfish, callous monster. Who's only motive was that of self gratification, at the cost of our suffering and our innocence.
The blue muscles denote his power. The red veins lust and the open sores represents his malignancy.
His right hand, clasped around mine also demonstrates his power and control over me. And as you can probably ascertain. His hand is forcing my hand into an act of masturbation upon his penis.
Although he had been sexually abusing my sister and I for quite a while and in secret. This image signifies the first time that he openly abused us in front of mother. I think that many adults assume that very young children will not or cannot remember sexual abuse when they become adults themselves. Unfortunately, I remember every single detail.
I can recall that particular morning with great clarity. Because, when you are traumatised to that extent, your five senses are heightened to an exceptional degree. You are frozen in time itself, which trickles in never ending, slow motion.
That Sunday morning, as my sister and I came out of our shared bedroom. Don called us into their bedroom. Mother was sat at her dressing table, applying her make-up.
Don, who was completely naked, patted the bed and beckoned us in. We obeyed; as we obeyed all adults. And, after some hugs and squeezes, Don began to fondle and masturbate my sister and I simultaneously, in front of mother. I can vividly remember the black, oily patch, grained into the wallpaper above the bed, where he rested his brylcreemed hair. And his huge, nicotine stained, clumsy fingers as they fondled and penetrated me. I can still see his rotten teeth and breath as his laughter turned into a smokers cough, when mother turned towards us and asked him ~
“Why are you doing that to them?”
To which he stated the obvious ~
“Because they like it!”
He then joked ~
“What's the matter love- you jealous?!”
He burst into laughter and told her ~
“Don't worry love, there's plenty to go round!”
Paralysed, in utter abhorrence, I searched my mothers face for an indication of anger or disapproval of this man's actions. I wanted and needed some kind of protective intervention...something.
All that she could muster, was a solitary 'Tut' And a half hearted ~
“Leave them alone”
She then turned back to her mirror and continued putting her face on.
Here, I portray Don as a selfish, callous monster. Who's only motive was that of self gratification, at the cost of our suffering and our innocence.
The blue muscles denote his power. The red veins lust and the open sores represents his malignancy.
His right hand, clasped around mine also demonstrates his power and control over me. And as you can probably ascertain. His hand is forcing my hand into an act of masturbation upon his penis.
A Slither Of Hope
Within all that horror and insanity, I had nowhere to go, no one to go too, protect or save me. The only thing that I possessed was hope.
Hope- That one day I would be free from all of this. And hope- That there had to be something truly beautiful in this world. Something that I could touch and hold on to. Hope is your only salvation. It keeps you going and keeps you strong, when there is nothing else.
This painting depicts myself as a young girl, during the time that I was sexually abused by one of my mothers boyfriends named Don. The abuse occurred between 1966 and 1968.
It also depicts the psychopathy of my mother, who- not only enabled Don to sexually abuse my sister and myself. But, inflicted psychological and physical abuse upon my siblings and I on a daily basis.
My painting illustrates personal symbolism throughout, and I shall explain by starting with the images that hang above the bed. The first one of the crucifixion of Christ. To outsiders, my mother is a good Christian woman who attends church regularly, smiles and talks about the evils in the world.
She talks about how Christ has forgiven her sins and that when she dies, she will be in the glory of God in heaven. She also tells her Christian family that I am evil, because I keep her grandchildren away from her. The other pictures are that of cute cats and teddy bears. My mother would protect and fuss over her pet (rescued) cats, yet incessantly abuse and destroy her own children. The bed beneath the pictures, represents the one that my mother and Don slept together and had constant sex in. I can still remember softly crying most nights. Whilst hearing Don making weird, grunting sounds and seething obscenities at mother as she made strange noises and would repeatedly cry “No- Don't”. And because, I didn't know what sex meant, I just assumed that he was hurting her.
It was also the same bed, where my mother watched and enabled him to molest my sister and I.
The chained and locked bedside cabinet represents my silence and the secrecy of the sexual abuse. Not just at the time, but for many years to come. The black, stiletto shoe was once used by my mother as a weapon on my younger brother. I watched in horror, as she hammered the heel into his head until it became stuck underneath his scalp. Witnessing a siblings abuse is as abhorrent and traumatic as your own abuse.
The female, stringed puppet depicts my first memory of being sexually abused. Don had given me the puppet to play with. And as I played with her, one day in the garden, Don came and got me. He took her out of my hands and discarded her onto the lawn. For the following two years; I was to become his puppet.
The bowl of bleeding pears that have a knife sticking into them. Depicts my younger brothers pain and anger against my mothers relentless abuse. This was the first demonstration of his rage. He was around nine or ten, when he began stabbing or slashing inanimate objects. As a teenager he became extremely aggressive and eventually trashed mothers home. Excess alcohol and drug use became his escape and his attempted suicides became his cries for help.
The family photograph on the other side of the cupboard, is of my siblings and I. Mother had wanted a portrait of her 'Happy, smiley' children to display in our happy, family home. Within the open cupboard door, is that of my ghostly face. One of my survival tactics was to try and become invisible- To not exist. And to do that, I used to hide myself inside different places. The shed or in a large rabbit hutch, under my bed and inside cupboards. If I could just feel invisible and safe, for even a few moments- It was something.
On the wall, next to the cupboard are two black raincoats. The sad faces of my sister and I are ingrained into the hoods. The coats are dripping black blood into our Wellington boots.
Next to us, are two bamboo canes propped against the wall. My mother had several of these that she kept in the kitchen. She used these to punish us and keep us in line. They were a demonstration of her power.
On the floor are some suitcases, black bin sacks and boxes. They represent the day we came home from school to find our agitated mother packing our belongings. In readiness of leaving our father, to move us into her new boyfriends house.
The bloodied toilet represents the initial place where Don abused me. It occurred mainly over the toilet, so he could ejaculate into it and there would be no evidence of semen stains. It was also the only room with a lockable door. The magazines shoved behind the pipe, were that of pornographic material.
The saucepan on the floor, depicts the night that mother smashed a huge, heavy saucepan onto Dons head after he had called her 'An old bag'. He staggered towards her, bleeding and swearing. He then proceeded to violently beat her in front of my siblings and I.
The red rug represents my pain and trauma. As does the black city where I lived, beneath me. The tall stool depicts my rising out – of that darkened hell, into lightness.
And if I kept opening the curtains and looking outside the window. Maybe, in the far distance, beyond adversity...Was the hope of humanity and a beauty, that I had only ever imagined.
Hope- That one day I would be free from all of this. And hope- That there had to be something truly beautiful in this world. Something that I could touch and hold on to. Hope is your only salvation. It keeps you going and keeps you strong, when there is nothing else.
This painting depicts myself as a young girl, during the time that I was sexually abused by one of my mothers boyfriends named Don. The abuse occurred between 1966 and 1968.
It also depicts the psychopathy of my mother, who- not only enabled Don to sexually abuse my sister and myself. But, inflicted psychological and physical abuse upon my siblings and I on a daily basis.
My painting illustrates personal symbolism throughout, and I shall explain by starting with the images that hang above the bed. The first one of the crucifixion of Christ. To outsiders, my mother is a good Christian woman who attends church regularly, smiles and talks about the evils in the world.
She talks about how Christ has forgiven her sins and that when she dies, she will be in the glory of God in heaven. She also tells her Christian family that I am evil, because I keep her grandchildren away from her. The other pictures are that of cute cats and teddy bears. My mother would protect and fuss over her pet (rescued) cats, yet incessantly abuse and destroy her own children. The bed beneath the pictures, represents the one that my mother and Don slept together and had constant sex in. I can still remember softly crying most nights. Whilst hearing Don making weird, grunting sounds and seething obscenities at mother as she made strange noises and would repeatedly cry “No- Don't”. And because, I didn't know what sex meant, I just assumed that he was hurting her.
It was also the same bed, where my mother watched and enabled him to molest my sister and I.
The chained and locked bedside cabinet represents my silence and the secrecy of the sexual abuse. Not just at the time, but for many years to come. The black, stiletto shoe was once used by my mother as a weapon on my younger brother. I watched in horror, as she hammered the heel into his head until it became stuck underneath his scalp. Witnessing a siblings abuse is as abhorrent and traumatic as your own abuse.
The female, stringed puppet depicts my first memory of being sexually abused. Don had given me the puppet to play with. And as I played with her, one day in the garden, Don came and got me. He took her out of my hands and discarded her onto the lawn. For the following two years; I was to become his puppet.
The bowl of bleeding pears that have a knife sticking into them. Depicts my younger brothers pain and anger against my mothers relentless abuse. This was the first demonstration of his rage. He was around nine or ten, when he began stabbing or slashing inanimate objects. As a teenager he became extremely aggressive and eventually trashed mothers home. Excess alcohol and drug use became his escape and his attempted suicides became his cries for help.
The family photograph on the other side of the cupboard, is of my siblings and I. Mother had wanted a portrait of her 'Happy, smiley' children to display in our happy, family home. Within the open cupboard door, is that of my ghostly face. One of my survival tactics was to try and become invisible- To not exist. And to do that, I used to hide myself inside different places. The shed or in a large rabbit hutch, under my bed and inside cupboards. If I could just feel invisible and safe, for even a few moments- It was something.
On the wall, next to the cupboard are two black raincoats. The sad faces of my sister and I are ingrained into the hoods. The coats are dripping black blood into our Wellington boots.
Next to us, are two bamboo canes propped against the wall. My mother had several of these that she kept in the kitchen. She used these to punish us and keep us in line. They were a demonstration of her power.
On the floor are some suitcases, black bin sacks and boxes. They represent the day we came home from school to find our agitated mother packing our belongings. In readiness of leaving our father, to move us into her new boyfriends house.
The bloodied toilet represents the initial place where Don abused me. It occurred mainly over the toilet, so he could ejaculate into it and there would be no evidence of semen stains. It was also the only room with a lockable door. The magazines shoved behind the pipe, were that of pornographic material.
The saucepan on the floor, depicts the night that mother smashed a huge, heavy saucepan onto Dons head after he had called her 'An old bag'. He staggered towards her, bleeding and swearing. He then proceeded to violently beat her in front of my siblings and I.
The red rug represents my pain and trauma. As does the black city where I lived, beneath me. The tall stool depicts my rising out – of that darkened hell, into lightness.
And if I kept opening the curtains and looking outside the window. Maybe, in the far distance, beyond adversity...Was the hope of humanity and a beauty, that I had only ever imagined.
Bashing An Angel
This painting depicts my mothers physical abuse. This was a daily occurrence for my siblings and I. Although she was my mother, she was also my enemy.
One that I had to constantly be alert to, appease to and hide from. As in a war zone, strategies, tactics and manoeuvres were crucial survival methods.
Especially when the enemy was so inconsistent and unpredictable. Besides the absolute pain and trauma of mothers violent outbursts. There was the constant fear and apprehension. And because she was so volatile and inconsistent, you could never gauge her level of reaction or anger.
She also had a warped perception of what was considered 'good or bad'.
For example, my sister could have one of her temper tantrums, by throwing and breaking objects. And my mother would often react with pride - Stating that my sister had 'Spirit' similar to herself, which she greatly admired.
Whereas, I could be quiet and well behaved and mother would call me a 'Sneaky, crafty, little bitch' That was always 'Trying to get one over her'.
And, because mothers abuse was my normality, it enabled others to abuse me. I was yielding, submissive and compliant to any form of abuse. It was my life, it was all that I knew and all that I was.
This image illustrates how I perceived my mother. An angry, violent monster. Who screamed obscenities and physically assaulted me. And the very real fear- of the possibility that she could actually kill me.
Here, the blue muscles represents her power, the red ones- her uncontrollable anger. The serpent like neck, symbolizes fear and apprehension, as in-When a cobra is about to strike.
The crucifix that would swing in unison to her beatings, signifies the hypocrisy of portraying herself as a good Christian. Often in her anger, she would drag me by my hair to the area, in which to beat me.
Her foot is holding me down, which again demonstrates her power, control and oppression. My bloodied tears symbolize my pain and trauma. And the movement of multiple legs and feet, represents my utter distress.
My amputated arms symbolize the inability to protect myself.
My mother is a psychopath. She is devoid of empathy and love. She actually derived pleasure from hurting others. She was narcissistic, selfish, sadistic and self gratifying.
She was not a mother that you could run to, when you got hurt.
She was a mother that you ran away from, because she hurt you.
One that I had to constantly be alert to, appease to and hide from. As in a war zone, strategies, tactics and manoeuvres were crucial survival methods.
Especially when the enemy was so inconsistent and unpredictable. Besides the absolute pain and trauma of mothers violent outbursts. There was the constant fear and apprehension. And because she was so volatile and inconsistent, you could never gauge her level of reaction or anger.
She also had a warped perception of what was considered 'good or bad'.
For example, my sister could have one of her temper tantrums, by throwing and breaking objects. And my mother would often react with pride - Stating that my sister had 'Spirit' similar to herself, which she greatly admired.
Whereas, I could be quiet and well behaved and mother would call me a 'Sneaky, crafty, little bitch' That was always 'Trying to get one over her'.
And, because mothers abuse was my normality, it enabled others to abuse me. I was yielding, submissive and compliant to any form of abuse. It was my life, it was all that I knew and all that I was.
This image illustrates how I perceived my mother. An angry, violent monster. Who screamed obscenities and physically assaulted me. And the very real fear- of the possibility that she could actually kill me.
Here, the blue muscles represents her power, the red ones- her uncontrollable anger. The serpent like neck, symbolizes fear and apprehension, as in-When a cobra is about to strike.
The crucifix that would swing in unison to her beatings, signifies the hypocrisy of portraying herself as a good Christian. Often in her anger, she would drag me by my hair to the area, in which to beat me.
Her foot is holding me down, which again demonstrates her power, control and oppression. My bloodied tears symbolize my pain and trauma. And the movement of multiple legs and feet, represents my utter distress.
My amputated arms symbolize the inability to protect myself.
My mother is a psychopath. She is devoid of empathy and love. She actually derived pleasure from hurting others. She was narcissistic, selfish, sadistic and self gratifying.
She was not a mother that you could run to, when you got hurt.
She was a mother that you ran away from, because she hurt you.
Adolescence ~Consequences of Abuse
Embracing Death
This painting depicts some of the typical and earliest consequences of child abuse. This image signifies one particular evening, when I was around fourteen years old. I had gone out drinking with friends in pubs around Birmingham city centre, before ending up in a night club. At the time, I was considered a 'Wild child' by my peers and certain adults.
I was out to sleep with as many men as possible. Take as many drugs that I could get hold of. And drink as much alcohol that I could muster.
Mother had a new boyfriend, who had moved into our house. So she was pre-occupied and didn't much care about where I was or what I was doing.
Outside of my house, I was in control. I had the freedom to do exactly what I wanted to do. I had developed into a woman, and I began to understand my power over men. If I dressed provocatively and flirted, they would be under my control, rather than the other way round. I was the one who chose - who to sleep with. Although I did not realise it at the time, I desperately needed to feel loved. And sex was my substitute.
I also kept people at an emotional distance as I had de-humanised myself and did not want anyone to get close enough to hurt me.
This night, for some inexplicable reason, I just decided to drink myself into oblivion. By drinking every different type of alcohol that was available.
I cannot remember how much I drank, but I can remember the corridors spinning as I made my way to the ladies. When I reached the toilets, it was like trying to scale a sinking ship. In one of the cubicles, I collapsed onto the dirty, piss flooded floor.
And as I lay in all this filth next to the toilet bowl. I smiled, because I knew that this is where I belonged. I was filthy, I was disgusting- I was home.
I thought that I was about to die, but I didn't care. In fact...I embraced the thought.
I was out to sleep with as many men as possible. Take as many drugs that I could get hold of. And drink as much alcohol that I could muster.
Mother had a new boyfriend, who had moved into our house. So she was pre-occupied and didn't much care about where I was or what I was doing.
Outside of my house, I was in control. I had the freedom to do exactly what I wanted to do. I had developed into a woman, and I began to understand my power over men. If I dressed provocatively and flirted, they would be under my control, rather than the other way round. I was the one who chose - who to sleep with. Although I did not realise it at the time, I desperately needed to feel loved. And sex was my substitute.
I also kept people at an emotional distance as I had de-humanised myself and did not want anyone to get close enough to hurt me.
This night, for some inexplicable reason, I just decided to drink myself into oblivion. By drinking every different type of alcohol that was available.
I cannot remember how much I drank, but I can remember the corridors spinning as I made my way to the ladies. When I reached the toilets, it was like trying to scale a sinking ship. In one of the cubicles, I collapsed onto the dirty, piss flooded floor.
And as I lay in all this filth next to the toilet bowl. I smiled, because I knew that this is where I belonged. I was filthy, I was disgusting- I was home.
I thought that I was about to die, but I didn't care. In fact...I embraced the thought.
Demonic Whispers
This painting depicts the time that I was sex-trafficked in 1977 when I was sixteen years old.
Up until this time, I thought that I knew evil. But, I had only ever tasted it. This was a whole new level of abuse, violence, desolation and absolute terror. No-one can ever truly understand such terror, and the ongoing fear that you could be murdered in any given moment -of every day. This is beyond most peoples comprehension.These men had broken me like an abused, captive animal. And all that I could do- was to go through the motions, completely obey and try to function in a sterile, detached and impassive way, in order to stay alive. But sometimes, when unwanted clarity intervenes and you become lucid in the reality of your predicament- you really want to die..and then other moments- you really don't.
Here, I illustrate the man who deceived and manipulated me -by initially acting like a nice, likeable human being, who then suddenly demonstrated his true colours and lured me into hell.
I painted the size differences, to show his colossal power, control and dominance over me, whereas I am small, submissive and defenceless. His finger is morphed into a sharp instrument, one that threatened my very life.
His left eye is rendered ice-cold and dead, like the psychopathic predator he was, and his right eye is shown concealed -in order to trick his victims into believing that he is just a normal, harmless guy.
He seethingly whispers into my ear – 'That I’m going to do as I am told or be killed' I cover my ears in utter horror and the disbelief that this is real -and this is really happening to me.
For many years after this happened, I never told anyone, and believed that it was my own fault.
And even whilst painting this image, I felt such inner shame, blame, guilt and detachment, that I painted a 'Blonde haired, blue eyed girl'
Not me.
It wasn't me.
It didn't happen to me, it happened to 'Another girl'.
Up until this time, I thought that I knew evil. But, I had only ever tasted it. This was a whole new level of abuse, violence, desolation and absolute terror. No-one can ever truly understand such terror, and the ongoing fear that you could be murdered in any given moment -of every day. This is beyond most peoples comprehension.These men had broken me like an abused, captive animal. And all that I could do- was to go through the motions, completely obey and try to function in a sterile, detached and impassive way, in order to stay alive. But sometimes, when unwanted clarity intervenes and you become lucid in the reality of your predicament- you really want to die..and then other moments- you really don't.
Here, I illustrate the man who deceived and manipulated me -by initially acting like a nice, likeable human being, who then suddenly demonstrated his true colours and lured me into hell.
I painted the size differences, to show his colossal power, control and dominance over me, whereas I am small, submissive and defenceless. His finger is morphed into a sharp instrument, one that threatened my very life.
His left eye is rendered ice-cold and dead, like the psychopathic predator he was, and his right eye is shown concealed -in order to trick his victims into believing that he is just a normal, harmless guy.
He seethingly whispers into my ear – 'That I’m going to do as I am told or be killed' I cover my ears in utter horror and the disbelief that this is real -and this is really happening to me.
For many years after this happened, I never told anyone, and believed that it was my own fault.
And even whilst painting this image, I felt such inner shame, blame, guilt and detachment, that I painted a 'Blonde haired, blue eyed girl'
Not me.
It wasn't me.
It didn't happen to me, it happened to 'Another girl'.
The Epitome Of Sorrow Is To Die Alone
(Excerpt from my book)
It was a bitterly cold winters night, when I opened the door to the balcony. I looked over the wall and stared at the sparkling, icy concrete ground nine floors below.
I moved a small table to the front of the balcony and climbed upon it, crouching and shivering with both the cold and fear. I waited until the area below had cleared of people. My tears felt incredibly hot and ran into my quivering mouth. As I imagined my twisted, broken limbs and cold white face, lying in a frozen pool of crimson blood. I wanted to do it so much, but it was so hard.
Voices inside my head were goading me “Just do it ! Go on, end your shitty life!..Just do it!..Just do it!”
I cried even more as I looked up to the clear, black velvet sky. The bright crescent moon and the millions of twinkling stars. They were so beautiful... So astoundingly beautiful.
I was so cold that I began to violently shake, which caused the table to wobble and that scared me so much, that I immediately climbed down.
I couldn't do it, I couldn't jump. I was too pathetic and weak. So in my failure and self contempt ...I decided to do something else. I removed all of my clothes. I was going to die as I had been born; Naked and in the foetal position.
I would fall asleep and literally freeze to death. So I laid down on the rough, iced floor of the balcony and curled myself up, waiting and hoping for sleep to kill me.
It was a bitterly cold winters night, when I opened the door to the balcony. I looked over the wall and stared at the sparkling, icy concrete ground nine floors below.
I moved a small table to the front of the balcony and climbed upon it, crouching and shivering with both the cold and fear. I waited until the area below had cleared of people. My tears felt incredibly hot and ran into my quivering mouth. As I imagined my twisted, broken limbs and cold white face, lying in a frozen pool of crimson blood. I wanted to do it so much, but it was so hard.
Voices inside my head were goading me “Just do it ! Go on, end your shitty life!..Just do it!..Just do it!”
I cried even more as I looked up to the clear, black velvet sky. The bright crescent moon and the millions of twinkling stars. They were so beautiful... So astoundingly beautiful.
I was so cold that I began to violently shake, which caused the table to wobble and that scared me so much, that I immediately climbed down.
I couldn't do it, I couldn't jump. I was too pathetic and weak. So in my failure and self contempt ...I decided to do something else. I removed all of my clothes. I was going to die as I had been born; Naked and in the foetal position.
I would fall asleep and literally freeze to death. So I laid down on the rough, iced floor of the balcony and curled myself up, waiting and hoping for sleep to kill me.
Secondary victimisation ~Ripple effects and victim blaming
I Am A Piece Of Shit
This self portrait depicts how people made me feel over the course of my adult life. Especially those who were close to me and knowledgeable of certain aspects of my past sexual abuse.
I was stigmatised, condemned, isolated and often abandoned by the people around me. And my psychological trauma of the initial abuse was exacerbated by their words and their actions. This secondary victimisation was a major contributing factor, that greatly hindered my recovery and sometimes felt worse than the sexual abuse itself.
The figure is isolated, alone and desolate. Sat naked and exposed within a landscape of faeces and darkness.
I was worthless and undeserving of any amount of love and respect.
The naked flesh is an expression of my vulnerability and subordination. And the elongated feet cover up my private parts, representing my shame, guilt and the self- blaming belief that it was all my fault.
My right hand covers my ear, not listening to the contempt and disdain that comes out of the mouths of decent, moral, virtuous people.
Yet, I hear the faintest whisper as loud as a thunder-clap. It hurts me so much.
But, then I deserve this just punishment. For I have been so bad. I am disgusting. I am unclean. And no-one wants to be contaminated by a dirty, disease- riddled leper.
I did not have the right to live amongst these good people.
So, I was exiled to 'Planet shit'...Where I belonged.
I was stigmatised, condemned, isolated and often abandoned by the people around me. And my psychological trauma of the initial abuse was exacerbated by their words and their actions. This secondary victimisation was a major contributing factor, that greatly hindered my recovery and sometimes felt worse than the sexual abuse itself.
The figure is isolated, alone and desolate. Sat naked and exposed within a landscape of faeces and darkness.
I was worthless and undeserving of any amount of love and respect.
The naked flesh is an expression of my vulnerability and subordination. And the elongated feet cover up my private parts, representing my shame, guilt and the self- blaming belief that it was all my fault.
My right hand covers my ear, not listening to the contempt and disdain that comes out of the mouths of decent, moral, virtuous people.
Yet, I hear the faintest whisper as loud as a thunder-clap. It hurts me so much.
But, then I deserve this just punishment. For I have been so bad. I am disgusting. I am unclean. And no-one wants to be contaminated by a dirty, disease- riddled leper.
I did not have the right to live amongst these good people.
So, I was exiled to 'Planet shit'...Where I belonged.
"I'm Fine Thank you"
I painted this self portrait in order to show the world how it felt to have to constantly hide myself and wear a mask for self protection and social acceptance.
I wore this mask, because I had always felt like an 'out cast' in a climate of misunderstandings, ignorance and the taboo that surrounds sexual abuse.
If I spoke out about the crimes that were committed against me or others. I would be met with a wall of silence, made to feel uncomfortable, strange, defective or dysfunctional.
Sometimes, there were extremely hurtful comments such as
“Well, don't people who have been abused, abuse their kids?”
Or the subject matter would be quickly brushed off with
“Ah well, things were different back then”
Another reason I wore this mask of 'Normality' was to thwart any unwanted questioning or probing by authorities, especially police or health agencies.
Because I became aware that there could be consequences and reverberations that could jeopardize myself and my children.
An abused person should never have to hide their pain, anxiety and distress in the fear of being re-victimised.
No human being should ever have to feel what I have painted here.
In all of my paintings, it is this one that affects me the most, because of my ongoing sense of indignation and injustice. Not just for myself, but for the other survivors of this world.
I wore this mask, because I had always felt like an 'out cast' in a climate of misunderstandings, ignorance and the taboo that surrounds sexual abuse.
If I spoke out about the crimes that were committed against me or others. I would be met with a wall of silence, made to feel uncomfortable, strange, defective or dysfunctional.
Sometimes, there were extremely hurtful comments such as
“Well, don't people who have been abused, abuse their kids?”
Or the subject matter would be quickly brushed off with
“Ah well, things were different back then”
Another reason I wore this mask of 'Normality' was to thwart any unwanted questioning or probing by authorities, especially police or health agencies.
Because I became aware that there could be consequences and reverberations that could jeopardize myself and my children.
An abused person should never have to hide their pain, anxiety and distress in the fear of being re-victimised.
No human being should ever have to feel what I have painted here.
In all of my paintings, it is this one that affects me the most, because of my ongoing sense of indignation and injustice. Not just for myself, but for the other survivors of this world.
