An Absolute Joke - Sentencing of Child Sex Offenders

I really wanted to swear on the title of this post. I blogged about the tragic death of Frances Andrade here. 

Frangipani for Frances Andrade

Clearly, with my personal journey at the moment, triggered by the stories of adults coming forward about the abuse they suffered as children, this story was always going to be close to my heart. I am on somewhat of a media blackout at the moment as I seek further treatment and support.

I was on a tube platform when I saw the news, over the shoulder on someone else's copy of a free newspaper, that Frances Andrade's abuser had been sentenced. I held my breath.

6 fucking years. 6 years. She's dead! Dead! Because the trauma of court was too much for her to bear and he gets six years. It gets worse though. The judge describes him as a predatory sex offender and in his opinion he is still a threat, yet he gets six years. And six years of what? A life in prison yes, but treatment? Therapy? Probably not. He'll come out in pretty the much the same way he went in. A predatory sex offender who is such a danger to young girls, that as adults they are so traumatised they kill themselves.

What a fucking joke this system is. He serves half of this sentence in prison and the rest on licence. 3 years in jail.

This guy's wife, as the judge describes, had a sexual agenda of her own and got 21 months. Her solicitor said this "Mrs Brewer's Christian faith has remained a mainstay in her life. The guilt she feels in playing any part in the demise of Frances Andrade is very acutely felt."

Which leaves victims like me thinking, what's the point. What is the point of putting yourself through that trauma of court for sentences like that. 

And that my friends is why I don't call myself a Christian. How can anyone sentenced for sexually abusing a young girl now dead claim to be a Christian? It's an insult. And she shouldn't feel guilty because she is a "Christian" she should feel guilty because she is human. Guilt is nothing to do with God, guilt is human. 

Honestly its just madness, and something HAS to change. It makes me rather pleased Jimmy Savile is dead, because maybe his sentencing would be piss poor to, who knows.

Coming forward as an adult to say you have been abused as a child is bloody hard. My heart goes out to all those with the intestinal fortitude to face court.

We need a better system. We need much better support for adults. Getting help is so hard. I've had to go private, yet again, for help with my poorly brain tormented by memories.

We need to get this right. Savile proves there are so many of us walking around with this hurt that needs healing.

And we cannot rely on the court system, and when perpertrators are utilising the same God we are, it makes it very hard to bear. 

What is Love?

When I was young, I found it hard to love. The things that happened to me as a child had hurt me, and broke the way I processed emotion. I found it very hard to feel love, to understand it. I wanted to love, to feel attached, warm and protected, but it was almost impossible. At times I still struggle.

I had no boyfriends at school or college. I had crushes but they never went any further. I felt lonely and a bit broken. All my other friends had relationships, their first kisses were at 14 or 15. Many were doing much more than that.

To me, sex and intimacy were all tied up with love, without it, they meant nothing. Why would you want to hold hands or spend hours kissing some spotty adolescent? Wise beyond my years perhaps.

To me true love, was my Nana. She taught me about love. We used to talk for hours about everything: politics, religion, sex, relationships. She was love. Nana loved deeply. She loved her family, her God, her community. She was very quiet, she never made a song and dance about it. Whilst she was Catholic she did not believe at all that that was the only way. She encouraged me to find my own truth. 

At university I began to mix with boys and men more. I discovered emotions that confused me. Affection, desire, lust. I started to date, and have experiences. Around this time I also became a Christian.

I had always believed in God. So many things had happened to me as a child and in my darkest times that is was impossible not to believe in a higher power that saw me through. People ask "how can God allow bad things to happen", but my God isn't a puppeteer. Life, the good and the bad happens to all of us, it's how we respond that matters.

 I could feel this warmth and protection and I chose to call it God. It wasn't the God I learnt about at Sunday School, it was a strong real presence, just wrapping me in safety. It was love. I chose to call it God.

As I started to attend church I started learning. A lot of what I learnt I question now, but one thing I learnt has stayed with me.

It's trotted out for weddings all the time, 1 Corinthians 13 4-7

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude it is not self seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perserveres.

 Love is not about 50 Shades of Grey or silly songs. It's nothing to do with sex or intimacy. Love is a decision. It's a decision to put the truth first. It is patience personified. It's nothing to do with self, it's to do with others. I love you. I put you first. I care for you. Really, I love many many people. Why define it further?

Love is an action. It's not a feeling. If I say "I love you" I mean that I will protect you, trust you, be someone you can trust, will always hope with you and perservere with you. It means truth. To be true, share each others trues.

I don't call myself a Christian anymore as such. Particularly as a survivor of child abuse, I just feel that too often Christianity is tied up with church, and for many people church was not a safe haven. There are too many connotations with that word. I just believe in love. My perspective is Judeo Christian one because that is my social context, what I grew up with. I don't apologise for that. I cannot believe that Christianity is more valid than any other religion, however. It's not me. Because I believe in love, and that people find their own paths to love whatever that means for them.

Love isn't pretty. It isn't shiny and sparkly. Love can be dirty, hard work. To love someone, to truly love them, isn't something to take lightly.

Before you next tell someone you love them, think about it.

Are you ready to truly love? 

The Pond Water Pact

I'd been having a tough few weeks so decided to take a break and go down to see a few friends including Daniel, and just have some selfish few days doing fun stuff, whilst Corey and Joseph were in Germany with family.

Of course Daniel had to stick a spanner in the works, and during a routine blood test, it was found his white blood cell count was very low, 3000. As Daniel has an underlying medical condition, and frequent visits from carers and other people, he was at high risk of infection. He was even, whilst I was there, threatened with admission to a neutropenic ward.

Eager to avoid this, it was suggested to Daniel that he start drinking green tea. It's quite widely accepted that green tea can improve white blood cell count.

Daniel wasn't overly keen, not being a lover of tea or coffee or hot drinks in general, but far preferable to admission was willing to try. Me being the sort of friend I am said I'd make the switch too. It's made me giggle as people have said "oh are you doing this for Lent?" and I reply "No, Daniel, I am far more scared of him than God"

I am not a fan of green tea, and have to say, it looks like pond water. My German office manager at Green Fish said "it tastes like photosynthesis", and she isn't wrong.

I went on abit of a mission to try different types of green tea, and I have to say Ive been somewhat pleasantly surpised, and I like them all for different reasons. Plain green tea I do find a bit hardcore, but with a flavouring in, its pleasant, and the green tea chai is a real treat.

I have made the switch now for well over a week, and the thing is, this is permanent. I've cut out tea and coffee, but may over time have the occasional coffee. I find it a very relaxing drink, and I am drinking a lot more in general than I did, I feel really well hydrated, and don't get the same crash as I do after having coffee.

Change is hard, and anything I can do to help friends I will do. I am very pleased to report that Daniel's white blood cell count, at last test, was 10 000, which is back within normal range. It could be coincidence but it would appear the green tea has done the trick.

All hail pondwater!

For Frances Andrade

This beautiful spirit is Frances Andrade. Before you read I want you to listen to her play

I want you to remeber this woman as a talented violinist, and someone who put all her sadness into her music. Because Frances Andrade doesn't play anymore, she died. A week after giving evidence against the man and his wife who sexually abused her as a teenager.

When I heard her story on the news last night and read today  I wept. My heart was torn in two for this beautiful woman that I never met. I sought solace in my violin playing when I was a child, beginning lessons at the age of seven. I never reached her dizzying heights or had her talent. But it comforted me.

When I wrote Jimmy Savile is dead I said that when you talk about the abuse, you are no longer an adult, you are right back there again, as a vulnerable child. It's terrifying, you feel exposed, stripped bare, dirty, alone, guilty, disgusting. You feel unlovable, and like your life is just not worth living. I know. I am there.

Frances bravely took her abuser to court. The process took two years, alledgedly in this time, she was advised not to seek counselling. In court she was called a liar and a fantastist, and this dear, dear woman had been sexually assaulted as a girl by an uncle, and later by her teacher and his wife was not believed. She had suffered so deeply. She had a history of self harm. Frances built a life and a loving family against the odds. She brought beauty with her music against such pain that she had suffered.

The man who sexually assaulted her is awaiting sentencing. But Frances died before she ever heard the words "guilty". The inquest is yet to be held, but the statements being issued tell a story. A story of a woman assaulted by the criminal justice system and let down by the police. I am not going to go into the merits or otherwise of the adversarial system of trial, but something has, indeed, gone horribly wrong when a victim is dead and the perpertrator gets a sentence in prison.

We have to learn from Frances, that her death may not be in vain. I talked briefly about my own story here. I was the victim of a sustained period of abuse as a little girl. I revisted this with the police not long ago, and was believed. But they advised me to think very carefully about going to trial. Historical cases are notoriously hard to prosecute. Both my witnesses are dead, also at their own hand. My memory is very patchy, I was very young, I didn't have the vocabulary for the things that happened to me.

I have no dates, there is no dna, there are no witnesses. I know in my heart that it happened, but I will never hear "guilty as charged your honour".

There has to be a better way. There has to be. In the 21st century we can do better than this, I have no answers but I am not going to be silent anymore. If we want to see these evil people punished, we need to get much better at the process.

Rest in peace Frances Andrade and I hope, wherever you are, there is music, sparkle and happiness.

Shark Bait, Humour and PTSD

This is NOT me - sadly

I blogged yesterday about PTSD and how I am having a flare up at present. I don't know about any of my fellow diggers with PTSD but one of the things I find really helps is humour. I guess its that old flight and fight thing too, that humour helps me, it brings me back to reality and makes me realise that however traumatic life has been there are still candles of hope.

As all of you know I have a stunningly handsome best friend, Daniel, who I adore to bits. Daniel has become such an accepted part of our family that Joseph sends him hugs every morning, and Corey refers to him as my twitter husband or twusband for short. A regular occurance in our household is

Husband: Can I watch football tonight darling?
Wife: Oh but I really wanted to watch telly
Husband: Well, isn't Daniel on Twitter can't you go flirt with him?
Wife: Ok then *toddles off happily*

When I first started talking to Daniel on Twitter I found him insightful, very clever and um a bit scientific. Never boring, but he ran his account almost like a business account, very professional and a bit, well, dry at times.

What I slowly began to realise that under this very serious exterior is an exceedingly warm and funny man. And this week we have both been there for one another (well as usual really) when this amazing woman sort of came into his life (no sadly not in a romantic sense!)

I suggested Daniel write a funny post about Nesta which he has here, so please read it.

Nesta clearly realised the best way to reach Daniel was on Twitter, she's not really a Twitter user (yet mwahahaha) and is still an egg. So when she sent the tweet:

Nesta Roberts ‏@NestaRoberts
@Daniel___BSc http://www.facebook.com/nesta.roberts.5 You’ve inspired me! Please check it out!! http://www.facebook.com/pages/Nesta-Roberts-Aesthetic-Nurse-Practitioner/276450962460971?ref=hl

My gorgeous, self deprecating best friend does what um everyone does and assumes it's spam. He said something like "this is spam isn't it?" I did 2 minutes checking, and just laughed at him! Beautiful woman wants to chuck herself in a shark tank to raise money for Target MD and Dan assumes it's spam. Just so Daniel all over.

Even I, Daniel's best mate, wouldn't do that!!! There are limits!!!

So if you are amazed and overwhelmed that someone who has never met Daniel would do this, please sponsor Nesta.

I'd also like to say a huge thank you to everyone who has made me laugh, sent hugs and offered to help. There have been so many of you I am overwhelmed. One of the problems with PTSD is I find asking for and accepting help very hard, so if I haven't replied or seem a bit off, just be patient with me. I am much better at helping others than accepting help.

And you can just tell me a funny story, or send a funny picture :)

Poorly Again - PTSD

This post is highly personal, and honest. Please think carefully before reading if you have your own PTSD and pain in your life, and particularly a history of sexual assualt. I won't be offended. 

I'm protecting someone. I don't know why. This person tried to take everything from me, my child, my job, my liberty. It happened a week ago. This person, a childminder in whom I placed my trust, made a serious allegation of child neglect. Child neglect is a crime, punishable with prison time. She said my child is dirty and smelly, that he is fed junk food, and that I dress him inappropriately for cold weather. She's either seriously deluded or.....I dunno, seriously deluded? She reported me to the social services safeguarding team. Fortunately Joseph has been in a placement for nearly 2 years and they totally backed me. I spoke to the social workers involved who immediately saw this allegation for what it was and proceeded no further. I have done so much safeguarding training and work that to be honest, initially I just saw this as another nuisance thing to deal with in my busy life.

But now, it's set in.

I am derailed. I thought I was doing ok. All my life I have protected people who have tried to hurt me. From the man who anally raped me at 5 years old, to the husband who married a virgin then raped her so severely she bled and was bruised. That was me. I never sought help because as a Christian (the type I was back then) had been conditioned that I had no right to say no to sex as a wife. So conditioned I was to hurt I just got on with it.

I just feel so tired. I am so sick of being attacked, of being made to feel inferior and no one can do that without my consent. I am not inferior. But I am broken.

My dear friend Daniel asked me the other day what the difference between a memory and a flashback is. Memories can be unpleasant, this is true, but memories can be, to an extent controlled. Flashbacks are involuntary memories. They are usually sensory too, physical sensations, smells, sounds, tastes, visions all come back in frightening reality. It's like being trapped inside a 3D telly until someone changes the channel.

PTSD can also make you make stupid connections. My beautiful friend Jennie lost her daughter this week. All week I had been feeling like the allegation of child neglect was the worst thing that could happen to a parent, and then I received Jennie's heart destroying news.

An allegation of child neglect is nothing. Nothing.

Nothing compares to finding your child no longer breathing, not rape, not child sexual assault and certainly not some misguided accusation of neglect.

I will get my brain back.

A Stressful Week and a Story About Chicken

This has been one of the worst weeks I have had as a parent. I can't go into massive details now, those of you on my personal Facebook will know the basics, but I was reported for child neglect this week. I will, one day, do a post about how I love our child protection system, it isn't perfect, but it does work. I have been fully cleared, within an hour of me being made aware of the allegation. I am in awe of the work social workers do and how they operate, and have nothing but praise for how we have been managed.

I am not sleeping well as it has kicked off my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder symptoms. One of my protection mechanisms is that when stressed weird things pop into my head, strange memories. This one was a very happy, funny one so I thought I'd share it.

I also have an update on my other blog too. 

Our Sicilian apartment in Letojanni

I was on holiday in Sicily with now hubby and 2 friends. We were staying in an apartment, and I decided to cook dinner, chicken involtini with ricotta insalata, in a tomato sauce served with summer greens and new potatoes.

So Sicilian villages being what they are, full of interesting looking men in black suits, and old ladies with scarves on their heads, I went to the butcher, as supermarkets don't exist. Presumably supermarket owners turn their nose up at paying large bribes, and are all at the bottom of the Mediterannean in concrete boots, but I digress.

View of the Mediterranean from our apartment

So big Sicilian butcher, looking like an Italian version of Con the Fruiterer, we shall call him Bertolli the Butcher, says "bionjourno" in pidgin italian I ask for Pollo. Here we come unstuck. Italian for breast. Not a clue. He points to his legs "no" He flaps his wings (well arms, Bertolli does not have wings) he starts to cluck and scratch his feet all the time talkinig very fast in Sicilian dialect. The shop, which was full of disapproving Sicilan grandmothers, starts to feel very uncomfortable, this weird woman is disrupting their normal Wednesday morning. I shoot apologetic looks and ask for help "English?" nooooo they all shake their heads. 

Me in Aussie Backpacker mode in Sicily

Any way, his head cocked to one side he says with huge grin "Pollo?? Pollo??" With great joy, he grasped his considerable breasts which appeared bigger than mine (those of you who know me will appreciate that this is quite impressive, for a bloke, as I am rather *ahem* gifted in the boobage department) and said "ah these, these" and then started pointing at mine and then in perfect English said "how many chicken breasts would you like".

Two please

The previously Easter Island appearing Greek ladies all start erupting with laughter saying "ha ha she wanted chicken breast"

Surprisingly, there was no camera crew to capture this moment.

Me cooking in our Sicilian kitchen. My next trick was not, sadly to ask for rump steak.

BTW the chicken was delicious. Who knows what they feed Sicilian chickens but the breasts were the size of pterodactyl breasts, and had so much flavour. If you have never been to Sicily I highly recommend the place. But you may want to take a phrase book.