Читать книгу A Diary of Secrets - Deb Shugg - Страница 4

I wasn’t even born when I was assaulted for the first time.

I was my mother’s seventh pregnancy and, unlike her other pregnancies, the news that I was on my way didn’t exactly fill her with joy. Another baby meant she wouldn’t be able to support the family she already had which included five other children and an alcoholic husband.

So she did the only thing she could do at the time and poisoned me.

Clinical abortions were illegal the year I was born and so my mother resorted to the only option she had. A discreet visit to the pharmacy provided her with a cocktail of drugs that would help the baby to spontaneously abort, a welcome miscarriage. Sadly for my mother, all she did was make herself sick. The pregnancy survived.

I grew up as a part of a family that had to fight just to exist. Money was scarce and family secrets were the thread that held it together. I was the victim of violence, indecent assault, attempted rape and sexual abuse.

Until recently, my memories of growing up didn’t exist. A few standout events I would never completely forget, but I had managed to erase every emotion or sentiment from them. I could recall events as things that happened but it meant no more to me than any other simple exchange of information.

I never expected too much from my life and I never thought about it that much. Sadly, the overwhelming concerns in my childhood revolved mostly around survival. It was imperative that I find a home for my emotions. Somewhere that I knew they would never be seen and I would be safe.

My first anxiety attack in a local shopping centre when I was 27, heralded a warning of the storms to come that would completely destroy both me and the perfect life I had created. Who could know that eventually I would be willing myself to die just to escape the agony that facing each new day created.

What I never knew was that it was in those storms I would rediscover the memories, tears and shame that I had fought all my life.

It took many years to discover me and for most of that time I would need to travel alone. My journal would be the only place my mixed up thoughts and feelings would be welcome. A place where words and tears could flow freely as I travelled the journey I never wanted to take and felt anguish like I could never have imagined.

It was on that journey that I found myself broken and empty and was able to return home, whole.