Why i’ve forgiven my rapists
Madeleine Black found a unique way to get back at the men who almost ruined her lifeé
Do you know what it’s like to have a secret, something so harrowing that you know you should tell people, but you just can’t – because you’re scared that if you do they’ll end up judging you?
For years, I tried to pretend what happened to me, hadn’t. If only I’d realised sooner that sometimes the greatest strength comes from owning up to your vulnerabilities.
I was just 13 when my best friend Kelly and I drank alcohol for the first time. Her mum was away for the weekend, and like most teenagers we were curious to try it. It was a Saturday night in April 1979. We went to the off-licence and bought a bottle of vodka. We couldn’t believe our luck when they served us. Then we took it to a café down the road, where we ran into a group of boys Kelly knew.
They were 17, and seemed friendly. Kelly gestured for them to join us, and mixing the vodka with orange juice under the table, we took our first sip.
Death threat
Although we hated the taste, we persevered. But after a couple of hours, Kelly and I could barely stand. So two of the boys offered to take us back home, to Kelly’s house.
By the time we got back to her flat, the whole world was passing in a blur. The boys guided Kelly and me to separate rooms. I remember collapsing on the floor and the boy started to pull my jeans down.
I thought he was undressing me for bed. But then I felt his body pressing down on top of me. I tried to push him off. But he just forced himself even harder. Then the other boy joined in. By the time they finished I was almost unconscious, but I can still remember the cold blade of a knife against my throat, and them threatening to kill me if I told anyone. After that everything went blank.
I woke up the next morning in Kelly’s bed with her beside me. I had no idea how I got there, but I quickly realised I was naked and there were traces of blood on my body. When Kelly turned over, fully clothed, neither of us knew what to say. I was too scared to tell her I’d been raped, or ask if they’d done the same to her, so I got dressed and left the flat in silence.
My parents had no idea what had happened. I hid my bruises under my clothes. But for weeks afterwards, I’d spend hours in the bath scrubbing my skin with disinfectant and a scourer to the point of bleeding. My weight plummeted and I wore baggy jumpers to hide my shrinking frame.
I hoped I’d begin to forget. But four months later, the shame was so all-consuming I stole some of the prescription painkillers my mum had for a nerve complaint and swallowed them. But as I felt the drowsiness from the pills kick in, I panicked and ran downstairs. Mum got me to hospital where they pumped my stomach.
Locked in silence
Two weeks later, I was referred to Mildred Creak psychiatric unit at Great Ormond Street Hospital. Weighing just 5st, the doctors put my problems down to anorexia, yet despite regular meetings with a psychologist, I never breathed a word about the rape.
As soon as I was discharged I went back to school but my downwards spiral continued. I was only 14, but I started drinking with older teenagers. To my parents it just seemed like teen rebellion. But one morning when I was 16, I slipped into the house after a night out and was confronted by my mother. ‘Where have you been?’ she yelled. ‘What if something had happened to you? What if you’d been attacked?’ I was dying to scream out, to tell her I already had been, but my body wouldn’t let me. So
‘I hoped I’D begin to forget’
I left a note on my pillow the next morning explaining everything.
When I arrived home from school later that day my parents followed me up to my bedroom. Mum just sat there silently, but Dad wanted to call the police. I begged him not to, terrified they would come after me if I reported the rape. Instead, desperate to help me, my parents arranged for me to go abroad for a year to work on a volunteering project.
It was exactly what I needed. Being removed from all the painful memories at home meant I could start rebuilding my life and one month before I was due to go home, I met Steven. He was staying in the same hostel as me and, at 20, he was a little older, but calm and grounded.
Letting go and moving on
We returned home and two years later, he moved to London to be with me. That’s when I told him about the rape. He was in utter disbelief but knew I needed his support. In November 1988, we got married and in 1993, our daughter Anna was born. Three years later, Mimi arrived followed by our youngest Leila in 2001.
For the most part life was good. I joined Women’s Aid and Rape Crisis and began training as a counsellor. Only then, as Anna’s 13th birthday approached in 2007, I started suffering from terrifying flashbacks. I realised a part of me was still holding on to the pain of that night.
It took time but I found I was capable of forgiving my attackers. I realised I wasn’t the one who’d done anything wrong. It wasn’t my fault, and I was free to heal.
In September 2014, I was approached by a woman called Marina Cantacuzino. She’d set up an organisation called The Forgiveness Project, where people can share their stories. I’d written about my attack and I shared it on her website.
The response was amazing. So I started writing more about my ordeal and how it affected me. Ten weeks later, I’d finished my first book, Unbroken. It was published in April 2017 and I now give talks about my experience and counsel others.
My girls are 24, 21, and 16 now, and say they’re proud of me for the bravery I’ve shown. But I don’t feel I’ve done anything extraordinary. I only did what was necessary, what was essential to survive. I hope it helps others to find their voice.