Abused by Dad
Now I know he never really loved me at all
As the school bell rang out, my friends and I pushed our chairs back and grabbed our bags. I was so excited. I was 7, it was the weekend and, as usual, I was spending the two days with my dad Mark. My parents had split up in 1996 when I was just 2 – too young to have any memories of them together. I lived with my mum Karen in the week, then Friday after school I’d head to my dad’s house until Sunday. I had my own bedroom with a pink duvet and my bed was lined with teddies. We always had fun – he’d take me to the park to play on the swings and we’d go swimming. But there was other stuff, too. Stuff I didn’t understand... In the morning, Dad would come into my room, wake me up and take me into his room.
He’d lay me on his bed and would climb on top of me, his huge belly squashing me.
His hands would roam all over me, and he’d make me touch him, too.
‘You’re a good girl,’ he’d say afterwards. ‘Let’s go and get you some sweets.’
It also happened at the park near his house, where he’d take me into a huge maze and take advantage of the fact we were hidden from view.
And in the changing rooms at the swimming pool, where he’d cover me in talc, touching me intimately as he dried me off.
‘There’s no point telling anyone about this,’ Dad would say. ‘No-one will believe you.’ So I kept quiet. Anyway, I loved my dad and I didn’t want to upset him.
I didn’t even dread going to see him at weekends.
I thought he abused me because he loved me. For me, what he was doing was normal. All I’d ever known.
In 2007, when I was 13, Dad got a girlfriend and the abuse stopped overnight.
I actually felt sad about it. I couldn’t understand what I’d done wrong for him not to pay me as much attention.
I craved affection from him, linked the abuse with love, so when I was 14, I started sleeping around.
It made me feel good and I liked the attention.
I blocked out what Dad had done. So much so that sometimes I’d wonder whether it had even happened at all.
But as I got older, I started getting flashbacks. Every night, I’d have nightmares where I was having sex with Dad and wake up drenched in sweat.
I couldn’t tell Mum or anyone else, so I self-harmed, slashing at my arms and legs. I felt worthless. It was like I’d spent eight years complicit in Dad’s sexual advances.
I was disgusted with myself,
I couldn’t tell anyone, so I selfharmed, slashing at my arms and legs
I deserved to be punished. One day, Mum saw my scars. ‘Please tell me what’s wrong?’ she begged, tears in her eyes.
I hated keeping things from her, but I couldn’t find the words.
I was just so confused. I still saw Dad. I’d go around for lunch about once a month.
One day when I was 18, I was at Dad’s house for dinner with some other family.
Later that night, he gave a little girl who was visiting with her mum a friendly kiss.
To everyone else in the room it was a normal, affectionate, loving thing to do. But I felt gripped with panic. Dad shouldn’t be around little girls, I thought. It’s not safe.
It was all I could think about for weeks and, finally, when I was out with my mum’s partner Lou, I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
‘I was abused,’ I said bursting into tears. ‘By Dad.’
We both started crying and she hugged me.
‘You have to tell your mum,’ she said. I knew she was right. Mum was horrified. She’d had no idea.
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ she sobbed. ‘We need to call the police.’
I was at the station for five hours, telling them everything I remembered. Things I’d tried to block out for so long, things I was embarrassed to say out loud.
Dad was arrested and released on bail.
As we waited for the case to go to Manchester Crown Court, I couldn’t cope with what was happening.
I tried to take an overdose and was sectioned under the Mental Health Act.
‘I don’t really want to die,’ I told Mum as I recovered. ‘I just want the nightmares to stop.’
Every night, Dad was creeping into my dreams and doing disgusting things to me.
It was like I was being abused all over again. I hoped that time would heal. In the meantime, I waited for the day when Dad would appear in court to face what he’d done to me...