Survivors Unpublished Memoirs of Child Abuse
Survivors Unpublished Memoirs of Child Abuse, I have many e-mails from many children and adults that want to tell their unpublished memoirs of child abuse; I think it’s a way that we all could make a difference and this will be a page that I will make aware for publishers to pop in now and again and read your stories to see if they would be in interested in publishing them.
Please make sure when your publishing your childhood memoir that it is an easy read for editors too read, also place in your published memoir your first name only, your age and location no more than this to identify you, If a publisher shows interest in your memoir then I will pass your e-mail details onto them for them to contact you directly.
This is my way in helping you get your voices heard here on my website and maybe through a published book, I hope that this will be a great eye opener to those that ignore our crys.
Media and Publishers:- if you are interested in any part of publishing these stories first point of contact is myself, please e-mail me for further details. All memoirs published on this website are protected under the copyright laws and no copying is allowed without prior permission of the authors.
PLEASE DO NOT COMMENT ON THESE MEMOIRS, THESE BLOG MEMOIRS ARE PURELY FOR CHILDREN AND ADULTS TO PUBLISH THERE CHILDHOOD STORIES ONLY…….. PLEASE DO NOT COMMENT ON THEM, AS THEY WILL NOT APPEAR HERE, UNLESS ITS A CHILDHOOD MEMOIR ONLY. PLEASE CAN I HAVE YOUR CO-OPERATION IN THIS MATTER.
September 11th, 2008 at 11:04 pm
The cellar was enormous and a little damp, it had been the servant quarters in it’s hay day. It was hard to believe that I was told when Mum and Dad first got married that we live down there for a while until they bought it from my Nan. I hate that cellar down to this day….it’s were my uncle first started to do things…because the cellar was so big and our family was so big the fire grate was the place were the paper rubbish was burnt…dad had become a tyrant, he would ridicule me I was not a man….man so to speak I was quite feminist, Geoffrey and Phillip were the rough and tumble, dad sore this as a weakness in me and picked on it with his sarcastic comment, Uncle Stanley helped me burn the paper and do my chores in the cellar in the pretence of keeping an eye on me that I didn’t’t burn the house down….he would give me sweets and money….he would take out his penis and grab my arm forcing my hand to touch the now erected penis, I would back away not wanting to touch it. He would pull my pants down and with one hand on my mouth he would suck mine, tears ran down my face this wasn’t to be the last time something happened with uncle Stan………………………………
As the weeks wore on dad became more of a bully, I couldn’t’ for love or for money tie my shoe laces…..no matter how many bloody rabbits went round the tree and down the hole and around the tree again (the way he taught us) it’s because of him that I don’t really remember any happy events from 10 onwards……………………..
Mealtimes started to become a loathing for me, wasn’t quite sure what it was that kicked in, times were hard and with both mum and dad working at the local factory making brake shoes at least every other week dad was in charge of meal times. Whether dad couldn’t’t or wouldn’t’t cook , all I remember is he made us do the cooking from an early age, hard boiled eggs, chicken soup and macaroni pasta cheese sauce, down to this day I still gag at the thought of macaroni cheese, eggs aren’t’t too bad but I rarely eat a hard boiled on today, soup I’ve lost the fear of soup now. At meal time we were regimented to sit at the table to do as we were told, and if we did not eat up we stayed at the table until we had finished, I remember falling asleep at the table only to be awoken with a slap that knocked me off the chair, but if we fail to eat what was put in front of us, we would be sent to bed and for breakfast was last night cold food. I was an odd ball as my dad would call me, I was a child that hate orange juice, and would drink tea at an early age, which I think vexed my father.
I would do any thing to get out of the house, I found a bucket a sponge and went washing cars 2 shillings, 6 d (13 pence in today money )I was so proud of my 1st days work I ran home with about £2.10 shillings (10 shillings about 50p today) …..I opened the door shouted “Dad” I don’t think I got the word Dad out when a fist hit me and lifted me across the floor, my lip was cut and bleeding I remember crying, before another blow struck me, the money in my hands flew every were……..I hadn’t done my chores before I left the house………dad picked up the money and that was the last I saw of it, 10 shillings would of bought about 5 packets of cigarettes in those days . I swore he would never spend my money again I took like a squirrel burying it before going home…..and sometimes like a squirrel I would forget were I hid it or some one pinched it
September 13th, 2008 at 9:05 am
i have 5 brothers,
A***-16 years old
D*****-18 years old
T*****- 21 years old
A***-23 years old
A******-25 years old
and i also have 2 sisters
D****-26 years old
G****-15 years old (she my identical twin)
i had an ok childhood until i was 5 well nothing happened to me until then, it was mostly wth my brother A****.
when i was about 3 years old, i still remember from this day on.
A**** was 11 and my Dad grabed him by the neck and put him against the wall just cause he answered back, i was just standing there in tears. Then A**** was 13-14 and my Dad throw him to the floor and started kicking him and punching him until he nearly passed out.
A**** moved in with my mothers parents. Then i think i was about 7 years old my Dad grabed T**** arm after breaking a window and twisted his arm til it snapped, the police asked him was it done deliberate and he said it was done by accident, after that this, T***** said he didnt want to live in a house where he was going to get hit.
My father then started on the rest of us.
He chased us up stairs and beat us, he was watching a porn film in my bedroom and when i came in the room and asked him what he was doing he hit me across the face and my nose started bleeding and he told my mum i fell over.
Hes put his hand up my skirt and he looked down my t-shirts and i asked him why does he do this, he giggled and said “this is a little bit of fun between me and you.”
I just started crying, is this what fathers do?
I want a childhood filled with love not alot of pain, sometimes i feel whats the use any more but i need to keep my chin up and look for the furture.
Also when i was nearly 13 years old i was raped by a family friend but it was up the arse, i dont know why.
And this happened more then that once, the last time was on the 10th july 2008.
My mum blamed me she said it was all my fault and i should be ashamed.
I always got told by my father i was a mistake since birth, my mum always says she hate me and dont love me.
My twin sister G**** kicked me til i was on the floor i couldnt breathe, she laughed and told me that she won the fight.
I have tried killing my self from all this and i have stopped eating many of times.
But to calm me down i write poems and i draw if you want to see any just ask and i will share them with you.
And the other things i do to alm me down, i read true life stories to see how other people have been effected in life.
I do ice hockey and roller hockey and i like lookng after kids.
I also dont like seeing anyone getting hurt,ive been hurt so much in my life and i dont want othersto go through the same.
the things i have told you is not all of it, its just a few things it would be to long to tell you everything it would be like writing a book which i want to do but dont know how.
September 14th, 2008 at 8:27 am
And so it begins,
I don’t really know how I got here. I wonder from time to time, which is why I guess I found the need to write this book.
I have read many true stories that have touched my inner core- they have filled me with inspiration and admiration for those who tell their story, not for publicity or wealth but that of teaching. Teaching people of the untold, the unsaid and hoping that their story will open the eyes of the people that do not see and that even in today’s society sexual, emotional and physical abuse still lives on and unless we open our eyes and help these children it will continue. Most children have been conditioned not to tell for the fear of not being believed, to them it’s just as bad sometimes as the neglect that they suffer from those that are meant to protect them.
My only hope is that this book will continue their work, as the more people in our society that open up and accept that this is still going on, then there is hope, hope for the children living in their own fears. Hope that more organization will do more listening to the children instead of these children just been a statistic in there books and more often than not being sent back to the people who abuse their love and trust. There is so much more work that needs to be done in this area that the more people that are aware the more we can do to help. These children are our future and it is our job to protect them.
It’s amazing how much a friendly face, a kind smile and an understanding ear can go.
I want to go back to the beginning and learn who I really am. Am I a product of society or is it hereditary?
So here’s my story from as far back as I know or can remember……………
I was born on the 19th Feb.’ weighing 4bls 9ozs. I was born to an Irish lady of 32yrs, a lady that would not be keeping her new born daughter.
I was to be taken to special baby care unit for 10day before I would go into foster care for 3 months. The people with power would then send a mixed raced child into a white family, which in itself would become a problem.
At 6 months old I was legally adopted.
.
My adopted parents were very ‘well to do’ on the outside. They were rich and happy with a big house and nice jobs. Everything some people might want, yet on the inside it was full of lies, disseat, affairs and violence;-Something that was to be kept hidden behind closed doors.
My mother came from a family of 2 brothers and 1 sister. They were not a rich family, but they got by, sometimes better than others. My mum does not talk that much about her own childhood, and when she does I’m shocked by the details.
She never got on with her own mother and from the way I hear she was treated I can understand why. My mother had to be the ‘mum’ to her siblings, cooking, cleaning and generally taking care of them while her own mother would be out with men that were not her husband nor the father to her 4 children.
My mother loved her father dearly and resented the way her mother treated him. He was a kind and loving man and would show my mother the kind of love that would keep him safely upon his pedestal and always in her heart. He would spend hours fixing up old motorbike and tinkering with engines, when able my mother would spend hours just watching and learning, just enjoying the warmth of his company. He taught my mother to drive at a young age, up and down there quiet road she would go until she could do it right always to show her father her best. She was very close to her father. It destroyed my mother when her father died. She was in her twenties then and I believe she still misses her daddy to this day.
She once told me about the names that were used by her own mother to her, things you just would not call a child, things you just would not say. My mothers self esteem must have been low as a child from the way she was treated. I am sure she still bears some scars herself underneath her tough shell. She once told me about the time when, she can’t remember why, but her mother had decided that she had done something wrong, and thus deserved the belt. While my mother sort her way through this beating she etched her age into the stone to take her mind away from the pain that was by now engulfing her. She wrote the 7 the wrong way round and when her mother had seen what her ungrateful child had done, another beating would take place.
I believe my mum grew up with such determination not to be like her own mother, that as soon as she saw an exit she headed full steam into that direction. Her first marriage, I believe was a marriage of love. She never talks about the gritty stuff but she never has a bad word to say about her first husband. They were marred for a few years and I think they were happy and secure in their new life together. They fell pregnant and were over the moon with their news. They had hope of having a large family, maybe 6 children. Yet their baby was still born. Their grief took their marriage and they parted. My mother was distraught as she would never be able to have any more children of her own
.
My father came from a rich family, a large home and never felt hunger or poverty. His mother was a lovely lady with a kind heart, yet her choice of husband and father to her children would prove to have its own downfall.
My father is an incredibly intelligent man and at the age of 3yrs self taught himself to read. ‘They’ say that his intelligence being so high puts him on boarder line schizophrenia.
I have been told stories of the strict nature in which my father grew up in at the hands of his father. At the age of 5yrs he was playing with a girl and the girl threw her shirt up, revealing her underpants, just as his father came to get him. He was beaten and made to stand naked upon the kitchen table while his father shouted and taunted him on what an evil dirty boy he was. After his father’s death some years later, his mother would remarry and he would finally learn the feeling of love from his family.
My father married young and had three children, yet when his children were just teenagers he would have an affair. His marriage dwindled and they parted.
That is how my mother and father would begin.
My father wined and dined my mother and made her feel special and loved. My father had a beautiful, younger woman on his arm who loved him in return. As strange as it sounds, my mother and my fathers first wife grew to have a very good friendship that would out last both there marriages’ to my father.
My father knew that my mother could not bare him children and knew her longing to have children of her own. So they started the long procedure of adoption.
It was not too long before there prayers were answered. A private adoption was set up and within a few months they were given the gift of a six day old son. They were overjoyed and threw all their love into their son and the child that my mother thought she may never have.
They would stay on the system and hoped that one day they would be able to adopt again. 5yrs later a phone call was received asking them if they would accept a mixed race child. They would have to learn all the things this may entail, especially in the 70’s. They agreed and shortly after the arrival of a three month old girl needing a home came to them. They felt their family complete.
I was too young too remember much from these days, I’m sure that my brother remembers much more though. Maybe he has become the person he is due to him remembering and witnessing so much at such an impressionable age.
Our house was large, I do remember that. It was decorated to a high standard throughout, never missing the little touches. I remember our large family room and how at Christmas we would sit around together as a loving family, in the warmth from the open fire that our father would have lit with all of us doing little jobs to help. I loved to fold the newspapers into rolls then bend them up so he could use the as fire lighters, I was good at this job, but never mastered how to do it without covering myself in the print!
The tree would be up to the large ceilings full of colour and twinkling lights, while the rest of the room would be tastefully decorated in an array of Christmas decorations. My parents would put up the decorations up on Christmas eve, so the excitement of Christmas to us children would all come rushing in at once.
Once the fire was burning my brother and I would get ready for bed then return to the family room, our excitement of Christmas hard to contain. Once we were organized my brother and I would stand next the large sparkling Christmas tree and sing carols to our parents. I always found this embarrassing, but it was all part of Christmas every year and would not be the same without that moment of fear as anticipating eyes watched on. As the nerves settled and the darkness grew, so did our excitement. Our parents were good at showing the ‘correct’ way to do things. It must have worked because I only seem to remember feeling loved and secure at times like this.
Our parents would then set us up with paper and pens so that we could write a letter to Father Christmas. Once written and spelling obviously checked, we were told that if we never spelt things correctly then how would Father Christmas be able to read it. I never liked that idea so was always eager to try hard with that. Our father would then let them go up the chimney where Father Christmas would then use his magic to swoop it up the chimney and collect it. This never failed to impress me, I believed in the magic of Christmas.
Christmas morning would always start with me waking in an excited panic, rushing to my stocking to see if Father Christmas had been, and every year he came filling my stocking and placing present around the tree. I would go and jump on my brother who would wake just as eager and then off we would go into our parent’s room to open up our stockings and to start the day.
The Christmas that stands out is the one that I broke my cross. We had returned from church and once inside the house I had discovered that my new cross and chain were not around my neck as they had been a few hours before. I told my father who then irrupted into an unfamiliar rage leaving my mother to calm him down while I retreated to my bedroom in streams of tears. I had never seen my father behave like this before and although I did not quite understand I did know that I did not like him like that, for the first time he had scared me.
I noticed that my parents would shout a lot at each other after this, they had done before only I was just not aware,. I do know that it would get far worse.
When I was 2 my mother had a hysterectomy, yet this did not find the support required from her husband, instead her incapacity fuelled his anger and while trying to manage with 2 young children he would leave for work leaving her to struggle through. On his return he would complain about the house and anything else she had not been capable of doing. He beat her so badly that he left her going in and out of consciousness for two days before he felt the need to call in a doctor. My mother lied about her injuries and how they had happened. The doctor knew differently but as my father watched over and my mother kept quiet his hands were tied, so he left after attending to my mother.
I never saw them argue, and inevitably my brother and I would be out of the way to witness such events. Yet as my brother was nearing 9 he understood far more than that of a 4 year old.
When my mother broke her foot she had her leg in plaster for about 6wks. This had been an accident, she had gone into the cellar and had thought she had reached the bottom when in fact she still had two more steps to go. When I was asked about this my reply was that my father had pushed my mother down the stairs. Although this had not been the case this time, it does tell me that there were things that were going on and even though I did not witness, even at a young age I obviously knew went on even if I did not have the understanding of such things.
We moved away so my parents could make a fresh start. I imagine this was filled with promises to my mother of things being different, and no doubt she wanted them to be, she still loved him.
I started school; it was a small village school with no more than 100 children varying in ages. It was built on a hill so there were many stone steps to climb before reaching my classroom. Infants were at the top, juniors at the bottom with the dinner hall in the middle. It was an old stone building and invariably cold. I had a few friends but most would just look at me funny. This is how I would come to learn that I was different, not because of my parents relationship as that was all behind closed doors and we knew that what happened at home stayed at home. It was the fact that the children did not believe my brother was my brother, or my parents were my parents. Why would they, the school was full of white children, my brother was white and so where my parents; yet I was not and in my innocence had not even noticed the difference.
I always knew I was adopted and my parents did a great job in letting us know that we were special because we were adopted, and I felt that, until this. I guess this must have been when my parents had the conversation with a 5 year old about her ethnic background. My dark brown hair and eyes, my olive skin all came from my birth father. He was an Arab who had conceived a child with an Irish lady. They were not married and my birth mother feared for my upbringing with such a man, so had chosen adoption for me, seeing it as the best thing to secure me a safe and happy upbringing.
I accepted this even if the children at school could not. I felt shattered when my brother joined in with the children taunting me for the colour of my skin. They would shout names at me, spit at me and generally make me feel the outcast. I guess you were either on the side of the bullies or risked being on the receiving end. The teachers would smile sympathetically and talk to the children involved, explaining this was wrong, but back in the playground it made no difference. Playing out it made no difference; it was just something I had to get used to however hard.
At home things had quietened down. My father was out a lot which gave my mother a chance to breath away from his constant criticism. This was not to last. While on the outside things looked fine a happy family. Yet my father was having an affair and my mother was just meant to conform to fit in where he said. This took its toll on my mother; the time away from her husband came with the fear of his return. His moods had become unpredictable and his violence and abuse of my mother had become hard for her to bear. Her only comfort was that he had never laid a finger on her children and she would never let that happen.
Their marriage ended when my father, after years of abuse beat my mother with a hammer, leaving her in icu, and us with family that would try and cover the story.
I remember being outside the hospital; wanting to see mummy, yet I was refused, told that mummy was well enough to see my brother but not well enough for a 5yr old, so I picked some flowers, daffodils to be exact, and asked for them to be taken to her.
Mum was in hospital over Christmas too
September 16th, 2008 at 6:33 pm
I am 16. MY family was perfect in my eyes.
I had my mum, dad, K (sister, now 20), S (sis now 17), B(sis now 14) and J (brother now 13).
We lived in a big house my dad was a policeman and earned good money.
I was always the daddys girl.
he left my mum when i was 13.
I didnt want my mum and chose to live with my dad and didnt speak to my mum the whole 18 months.
Bad idea.
He lived in a small flat and i slept on the floor in the living room.
He was very often drunk and used to tell me how much he loved me. I was very happy and hoped my siblings were jealous.
One night he came and lay next to me.
The next 18 months speaks for itself really.
One night i ran away from my dad and was wandering the streets and was attacked and raped.
I went back to my dads feeling like i had nowhere to go.
One night after his usual tricks he said he was going to get social services to take me away.
He didnt need to. Once the idea was in my head that was it. I then got moved into my first care home, this is when i realised i needed my mum. I started self harming and took plenty of overdoses. i spent new years eve 07 in a mental hospital and my birthday (jan) in hospital. Another overdose. The hardest thing was seeing my mum and not having the strength to tell her why i was doing this. I couldnt cope with people or myself for that matter and i wanted to die. I sterted drinking heavily then smoked my first spliff. After about a week i had taken nearly all the drugs you could name. One night i was talking to one of the staff and we were sitting around a campfire. i started talking about my childhood and before i knew it i had told him everyhting. This was when i stopped drinking and doing drugs. I decided it was too hard for me to go to the police as my dad is a police man. I have sorted my habits out and i have just started my first job in a nursery. My youngest sister B has been my saviour. Without her i wouldnt be here now. I am moving out of this childrens home soon and going to be a lodger. This is very scary for me and i still dont think i will be able to cope. But to all you suffering who feel you have no1 to turn to its hard but talking was the best thing i ever did. My mum and I are so close although i wish i could see my family more often i treasure everything when they come to see me. I just love my cuddles from my mummy.
September 17th, 2008 at 11:43 pm
I’m from Colombia, I’m 36 years old and came to London 6 years ago.
For about six months, i’ve became aware i was sexually abused by my dad for almost all my childhood.
I grew up thinking that the pain touching continually my intimate parts was “normal” part of my growth, that it was part of all girls’s life to have secrets moments with their dads.
I grow up with my mum, my brother and two younger sisters. And just next to us, used to live all my dad’s family: my grandmum, grandad, uncles and aunts. All of them are very religious people; for the outside, we all were a normal, good family.
Since always my mum knew what was happening but she chose to keep it hide and continue our lives as nothing was happening.
So i had always to go to school, to smile, to pretend all was fine. My mum used to make for my sisters and me, beautiful dresses, and so all seemed happy and fine.
Later my dad’s family found out about the abuse, but all of them asked my mum to keep in hiden and promise to help her with our “education”.
So, i wento to all catholics ceremonies, dressing all those pretty dresses, but at the end, there was always my dad, whowold find the moment to take me, needing each time more and more form me to be satisfaid. I alesys wanted it to finish soon, so i wpuld be able to go back outside to carry on playing with my brother and sisters.
My mumstaretd to hate me and took it as i was having an affair with my dad.
I couldn’t deal so well with school, friends, anything oy anyone. My dad’s family treated me as a kind of devil’s girl who tempted his dad, who was so weak to resist her. He was jus a weak man with a devil girl.
All tha nightmare stopped when o got the firs perdiod, by then all inside of me was destroyed.
And form then i just did was i was taught by my mum:nothing happened, and until now i suffered kind of anesthesia about the painful parts of my past.
Being in London, feeling for the very firt time finally safe, learning a new lenguage, living a new culture, woke up that childhood that i tried to forget and take out of me.
I feel totally grateful with survivor like Joe, who through his history, teaching us to give our first steps in our recovery,it’s not easy to put it into words!!!
September 20th, 2008 at 9:09 pm
Subject: One day I’ll fly away.
Donna, 27, Birmingham.
It all in my head, I could write fifty books so I just wanted to put bullet points and maybe ellaborate another time.
Age 1-5 = Myself, my sister and my mother beaten by my father.
Age 5 = My mom has an affair with my dads married best friend and becomes pregnant with my brother, the boy she always wanted.
My parents divorce, If I was a boy they would still be together, according to my dad.
Mom begins beating my sister and I, Dad continues when we visit on weekends.
Age 6 = My sister is abused by an old man who lived up the road from us, whilst I was there.
I kept my sisters secret, if only I had let him abuse me he would have left her alone, I wish I has told someone, but I didn’t talk much.
Age 7 = Dad stops hitting us, mom gets worse.
My sister tells police about the old man but they say it’s too late to do anything.
Age 8-13 = Bullied and beaten at school.
Age 11 = arrested for shop lifting.
Age 12 = mom tells boyfriend of sisters abuse and he bullies her for it.
Mom kicks my sister out, alone now.
Age 14 = hope, mom not hitting so much, she’s in love and he’s finally a great guy, great after all the other monsters shes dated.
Cousins boyfriend B tells me he’s in love with me
Age 15 = the usual crap, moms fab boyfriend is killed in a motor accident.
Dad tells me he is gay.
Mom starts dating B
15-25 B kisses me, traps me in a room till I tell him I love him, which I wouldn’t do.
uncle tells people he slept with me, he didn’t
I tell mom about B but she doesn’t believe me
Age 23, B kicks me out, homeless
Age 23, dad arrestes for indescent images on computor of children, 3 months prison - I give him a second chance.
Age 24 have counselling - doesn’t work
Age 24, mom leaves B as kicked brother out and I help her, so give up my flat to help with house.
Age 25 mom and brother go back to B
I am homeless
Age 26, still homeless sister lets me stay at hers but can’t get to uni, so move in with dad
Dad arrested for indescent images again, and rape of a male minor ten years ago.
Age 27, waiting for Dads sentencing, I hope he gets life
October 8th, 2008 at 4:59 pm
I am a nearly 40 yr old woman now, I should be exhausted and thrown the towel in. I haven’t I’m stronger than that and my childhood trauma has provided me with such strength and insight.
I was adopted when I was 6 wks old, I believe the adoption process causes abandonment emotions even to those who go to good homes with loving families. My adopted mother was terminally ill from when I was 4 and my emotionless father did his best. I new I was adopted from the age of 5 yrs old by accident and didn’t react well. I was subject to sympathy by society for being different, I had an ill mother, no parenting and I was rebelling, I became different. After my mothers death when I was 10 my father decided to go join a dating agency to find me a mother! He did and married her, she had 2 sons one younger and one 6yrs older. The older one befriended me and took advantage of my vulnerability. On my father’s and step mother’s wedding day when I was 12 he raped me and continued to abuse me until I left home at 15 yrs old.
The initial damage was done but I was not done with destructive behaviour as that was all I knew.
I married at 18, mistake, He was a violent bully and I lived in a domestic violent life for a further 4 yrs. I had 2 children by the time I was 20 and when I left I had another on the way. My children are my life. I married again for security that turned into sheer bordom and had a further 2 children. This time it was a silent bully, which is worse?
Trying to be normal without knowing what normal is can be tricky.
I met my natural mother when I was 28 and experienced unconditional love for the first time ever. My Mum committed suicide a year later. Before her death I shared a whole year of completeness, I had a Mum.
This loss did crack me up I lost it lived it up and did rash things. Decided to move away and left for a new life.
I got divorced again….
Will I ever learn?? I did well, I started a business and it was very successful I managed to get a mortgage and buy my home couldn’t afford it but had it for a while, had a nice car. On the surface I was doing well, I wanted to hold on to that so much but I couldn’t. I was on my own with 5 dependant children running a business working 60hours a week with 4 staff and trying to pay for everything… I was out of my depth and had noone to turn to for help. Boyfriends came and went with more personal attacks wanting free rides or someone to lie to.
I walked around my house not knowing what to do for the best, I asked for something to happen to take me away….
One night I had been out with the latest of the boyfriends and due to the lack of trust and alcohol an argument broke out. That resulted in me driving my car and I had an accident… someone died and I went to prison… The end
Of me, the person I was also died that night.
3 yrs on I have decided to launch a website and believe that all my experiences have to be for a reason. A positive reason my lessons have been a gift and if I can help one person gain self worth again the life lost has a purpose and I’ve made it all matter.
I have survived so much now I have a great future ahead of me.
October 26th, 2008 at 11:27 pm
BIRTH TO 2 IN AND OUT OF CARE MOTHER A DRUNK AND ABUSER
BIRTH TO 2 IN AND OUT OF CARE FATHER AN ABUSER
2-16 IN FOSTER CARE ABUSE THE WHOLE TIME THERE NO ONE BELIVED ME FOR 14 LONG AND LONELY YEARS
13 MET UP WITH BIRTH MOTHER WENT TO MEET MY (NEW) FAMILY SHE LET HER BROTHER REPETADLY RAPE ME
16 HAD FIRST CHILD RELATIONSHIP VOLATILE
19 HAD SECOND CHILD GOT MARRIED THEN HAD 3RD CHILD DIDNT THINK YR HUSBAND COULD RAPE U GOT ME PREGNANT 8 TIMES AFTER WEDDING BUT ONLY ALLOWED ME TO KEEP ONE KICKED OTHERS TO A DIFFERENT LIFE
24 FOUND COURAGE AND LEFT HIM
24 YES I NO I WAS WEAK TOOK HIM BACK ( BUT HE HAS CHANGED?)
25 HE NEARLY KILLED ME I GOT POLICE INVOLED(IN THIS TIME I WAS WITH HIM HE BEAT ME RAPED ME BEAT MY KIDS.
2005 AGE 27—– WOW I HAVE FOUND SOME ONE WHO TRULY LOVES ME AND MY 4 KIDS.
INBETWEEN THIS TIME I FACED A LIVING HELL I WILL NOT GO INTO IT AS EVEN TOUGH ITS 11/12 YRS AGO IT IS STILL VERY VERY RAW AND HURTS TO DEEPLY.
BUT GUESS WHAT I CAME OUT THE OTHER END WITH NOTHING BUT PITY FOR EVERY ONE WHO HAS HURT ME AND THATS BECAUSE I AM A BETTER AND MUCH STRONGER PERSON THEN ANY OF THEM WILL EVER BE
November 26th, 2008 at 11:33 pm
I was so excited, I couldn’t run quick enough. I was going to be in the newspaper. The whole family wanted to see my picture, I was so proud of myself. Mom had given me enough money to get a few copies. So, there I was running to the shop as fast as my legs would take me, my lungs quickly filling and emptying with the warm summer air. I was seven years old, I hadn’t done anything special to be in the paper. I was just chosen because I was the new kid in school. I had my picture taken with a police officer to promote a new crime prevention scheme. As soon as I returned home I rifled through the paper to see my picture, and there I was, on page 16, standing next to the policeman with a shy smile across my face, knee high socks, a polka dot dress and my new sandals. It was so exciting, I couldn’t stop looking at it. I’d never been in the paper before, I felt like a celebrity. Twenty years later and I still have that newspaper clipping.
Twenty years later and I am doing the same thing. Searching through the paper to find an article. This time though, there is no enthusiasm, no excitement. Just shame, embarrassment and the hope that no one I knew would see it. I didn’t run to the shop to buy as many copies as money would allow me. My sister went to the shop for me, just buying a copy for me and one for herself. This time it wasn’t me in the paper, it was my Dad and it was nothing to be proud of. My sister returned to the car with the paper and we both sat in silence as she searched her copy to find the article. It had made page 22. There was no picture to gleam over with pride, just the biggest headline I had ever seen. It read ‘Instructor Jailed for Raping Boy’. I felt sick reading it, my heart pounding, my body shaking and my eyes locking the tears away causing my throat to ache. That feeling was back, from the previous day when I sat in the court room and heard the judge say 14 years. That feeling of guilt and shame, like I had committed a crime.
March 19th, 2009 at 11:52 pm
Hello Joe, I want to write my book. Can you please advise me and tell me how publishers wish to receive it? Do you have to do it on Adobe? I only know Pagemaker would that be acceptable do you know. Please let me know when you have a moment Joe would appreciate that very much. I think you will have my email address. Many thanks Joe. Caroline M
March 20th, 2009 at 5:31 pm
first of all i would like to say sorry for my spelling mistakes through out my story x
After reading all of the stories on this page im not sure wot to rite, i have been planing it for so many years to!!! so hear i go and i hope it makes sence.
ive been negleted in so many ways by my mum dad and alot of family members from very early in my life but i dnt think now is the time for what happend in the begining so ill start in the middle.
i was placed with my aunt (grate) after my dads girl friend made him choise between me and my yonger brother and he picked her ,my other sibblings went to another aunt.
in the begining things were so good we wer treated realy well and they spoiled us rotten but they ended all so sudden, you see my aunt ran a home for boys and after a time i became a target. in the home there wer 3 main abusers but 1 will stay with me till the day i die i dnt think i can say his name so ill call him tom.
i was only 9 when he came to live with us at the home he was 16 i think and it startd happeningg quickly first he was being nice but to nice !! then it was tickling but it wasent funny as he kept geting my chest or between my legs and that hurt alot.
then things only got worse he started being horrid calling me names saying my aunt was telling him to which didnt supprise me at all as she had already told the lads there they could hit me insted of her doors (nice to no the doors were more inportant than me) then he started comeing in to my room in the morning sayin he had been told to surch me as money had gone missing again and i had taken it ,so i took off my shoes an socks but he wanted me to remove the rest of my clotheing i was so embbarassed i had just started pubity .
i did as i was told then he told me to spred my legs and bend over that was my first strip serch but there would b many more to come over the next 4 years the way he kept me quiet was by threterning that he was going to cut me up in little bits and put me out with the rubish as he told me he would get excitded an make me rub him it was his fantisy and i realy belived him i did try and go 2 the police but they never belived me and never invesrgated it which was a shame as in 1991 he carried out his dream,she was a young 17 year old and lived under his flat and he killed her raped and dissmemberd her bodie and put het out with the rubbish.
this is just one thing that happend to me there are many many more i have been raped and abused by about 17 diffrent people and had to go through my brother rapein my 3 year old daughter to but thats another story i just hope one day i get to tell my side of the story as it carnt stay under the carpet much longer thank you for reading xxx
June 18th, 2009 at 4:43 am
I must admit that I was very mad at God after reading this true story…I have been through really tough times and allways got through with Gods help. But this story hit me straight in the heart, and the gut. I read two other books before this about child abuse, but this story was the worse case of abuse I ever heard of. I’m 34 years old and I wish I had some kind of “super powers” to rid the earth of child abusers. I just want to protect every child in the world, and I know that is not humanly possible. But, because of these true stories that are comming out, I hope that changes will come, maybe slowly, but changes none the less. Like myself…I have thought about being a foster mother in the past, and never done it. But because of Joe Peters story, I had to make the call and get the ball rolling on being a foster mother. I allready have a beautiful 6 year old little guy of my own, and when I read this story I was thinking “how the hell could anyone be so evil?”, I wanted to be there and hug the child in the book and nuture and care for him. But, somehow he is a grown man now,thankgod. I know I couldn’t be there for Joe, but I can and will give some other children safety, love patience and anything else they may need, and I have plenty of. I’m a stay at home mother, because I don’t trust anyone to watch my child. People trust their most prized gifts to others to often, not knowing for sure what could be happening to their child. I know there is a God, I have witnessed too many unexplained things, but I would still like to know why? I know that God and the angels had to be with him because the things he was put through would have killed others. His story had to be to help others maybe? I will never forget this story, and have passed my copy on in hopes to get word around. I’m tired of abusers getting by with what they do. I might piss some people off, but I really think people like these abusers should have done to them, what they do to a child and then executed. It is a fact that you can’t rehabilitate a sex offender. If courts don’t have the guts to execute these abusers, they could call me. I think about how when my little boys legs hurt at night from growing pains, and I give him some childrens Tylenol and rub his little legs, and how Joe laid in the place he was in pain, in the dark and lonely and I swear, it about makes me throw up. I look at my sons little feet and hands when he is sitting next to me, and I think “How the hell can a abuser look at a childs little hands and feet, not yet developed and still cross that line? I really believe some people should be “fixed” too, why do we fix animals from having puppies, but let abusers go around and have as many children as they want? I will do my part, and protect as many children as I can. And I will risk loseing my heart when I get attached to them, and they get adopted out, or go back with their horrible parents, but at least I will try, and after being in my home, they will know to tell someone when someone is hurting them, and I will try to make them strong enough to not be scared. Because I have enough love in my heart, so much that it feels like it is bursting out of my chest, to give to many, many innocent, gifts from God, children. One last thing…to anyone reading this that may be getting abused, please know that you can call on your angels to help you or be there for you anytime, I may get mad at God because of these kinds of things, but I know he is there, and I have seen angels, and know they are there. Please tell someone, tell more then one, and don’t be embarresed, it is NOT your fault. Leann
July 6th, 2009 at 9:29 pm
MAY THE GOD I LOVE AND SERVE HEAL YOUR BROKEN HEARTS… I PRAY FOR PEACE FOR EVERY ONE OF YOU AND KNOW EVEN THOUGH YOU MIGHT NOT BELIEVE BUT ONE DAY THEY WILL HAVE TO BE JUDGED FOR THERE ACTIONS ..
ALL MY LOVE AND PRAYERS
BEVERLEY XXXXXXX