My life has been a series of exciting, fun filled and marvellous adventures. Unfortunately some have not been so wonderful. I have been wondering how I would respond to some of my not so wonderful adventures if I had the chance to re-live them with my 69 years of life behind me. 

The first unpleasant adventure occurred was when I was 8 years old. We lived in the Far East; the tightly knit “ex-pat” community centred in discrete neighbourhoods.

In our neighbourhood all the children were expected to belong to the Club formed by a group of older boys, around 14 years old. They had a strict rule about letting us young children join. We were required to strip in front of them and let them touch us wherever they pleased. And they pleased. As far as I know it never moved beyond touching. But I was 8 years old; what did I know?

The next incident was on the ocean liner bringing us home. I was 11 years old then. And my periods started. I knew nothing. I was alarmed and far too embarrassed to tell anyone. My cabin steward told mum. Mum told me I was now a woman and could have babies. That was it. And she told me I must never under any circumstance allow any man to see a sanitary towel. She was in charge of doling out sanitary towels; I was under strict instructions to collect one, bring it to her to check I had got the right one, and only then, was I allowed to go and change. One day, carrying a sanitary towel as discreetly as possible and clenched tightly in my hand, one of dad’s friends accosted me. “What do you have in your hand, then, go on, show me!” he was persistent. He was large. He was an adult man. He terrified me and he tried so hard to prise open my hand. I remember the heat and hardness of him as he tried to see what I was hiding from him. How did I get away? I have no idea. I would like to say I told my dad. But that didn’t happen. Dad never stood up for me. 

Between the ages of 11 and 18 so many men attempted to sexually molest me, it got boring. I told my parents only of one, because he held me down on the ground and removed my knickers. He told me he would kill me if I made a sound. I decided death would be preferable and screamed. I remember his comment “The girl I did last night didn’t scream like that!” and I was able to get away. Nothing much happened about it all though. In the early 1970s no-one much bothered. 

Long ago I had therapy specifically around PTSD. Most helpful… it involved changing the incident in your mind so you had the power, not the attacker. Life changing.    

CMM

A Moodscope member