I remembered another two books I had, that I used to dip into to try and stick this healing journey.

Captivating by Stasi Eldredge. I bought a copy, got furious with God, reading about how He loves me, wrote lots of notes and sarcastic “ha!” messages in the margins, and eventually recycled it, ashamed of my very slow progress, and seeming inability to progress beyond baby stumbling emotionally.

A couple of years after the book’s demise, I bought a new copy, an updated copy, wherein the author stated she had changed her mind and views on certain topics since writing and publishing the original version. I don’t remember if I agreed or disagreed with her new stance, but the book was shelved. And not annotated by anger or by me. Then my cousin’s wife sent me a workbook to accompany Captivating, and I thought I’d work through it. I never did. It seemed to touch on assumed experiences and relationships – favourite activities and girlfriends – that I just didn’t have. I felt left out of the Left Out Club. Too much of a misfit for even the misfits to want me.

Another book I donated to charity was called The Father Heart of God. Don’t ask me who wrote it: I don’t remember. I only know that it was nauseating in its content. And receiving it from my naïve friend also made me feel sick, as if what was wrong with me could be resolved by simply understanding that God loved me. I felt like screaming at her, “don’t you get it? I don’t want God to have a father heart! That’s the source of my misery! Someone masquerading as God’s representative, but still wearing Satan’s underwear.”

You’re right. It would have been misconstrued.

My dear friend C gave me a book entitled Making Life Work , by Bill Hybels. I never did find out if the guy had made his life work. I didn’t read it. I didn’t need to be further patronised. Further abused. Yah, people’s emotional/spiritual quick fixes can end up feeling abusive. The unspoken but clearly heard message of: “why can’t you just be more normal; more like so-and-so? Why do you keep moping and crying about your life?” …tends to be perceived as what it is: further emotional abuse.

So I have reached today. A line I wrote in a short story a couple of weeks back; it’s on here: Bea’s Friend. I digress, but probably not hugely. That story helps to express certain emotions.

The darned book I’ve just started reading is seriously pissing me off. I don’t like the author’s writing style as I find it confusing and illogical. It could just be that I don’t like the subject matter. But I also don’t like his style. He’s looking at the damage CSA causes; good. This needs addressing. But he gave a definition of sexual abuse that was not complete (that was the point last night at which I hurled his book beyond the end of the bed).

However, despite being pissed off, I have decided to read the book, particularly because I want to be able to address these issues related to CSA on real time, as I come across them. So I’m annoyed with his overly simplistic, excluding definition of CSA. I’m gonna have to write it out tomorrow, so that I can argue against it, and because I’m falling asleep as I type right now.

Today feels as if I’ve gone cold turkey, given up all props and crutches, ready to face this beast head on. And I don’t like it. I don’t want to face reality. I don’t want to face distorted reality.

I’ll have to finish this in the day because the sleep voices are washing in and out between dreamland and reality.

But I’m saying I’m committing to read the entirety of this book (The Wounded Heart by Dr. Dan B Allender. And I’m also committing to writing on here about it, and to disagreeing where I can’t agree. I’ll share my perspective on things, and tomorrow I’ll write out my understanding of the Police (UK) definition of CSA, and why that doesn’t exclude or negate my experiences, even when held up next to Dr. Allender’s interpretation.

Really falling asleep now. Easter hymn phrases popping into my head.

If you have read his book, or any other, on the topic of CSA, please comment below, and let’s see what light we can shed on this ghastly issue.

I hope I’ve not written gobbledygook. I’ll edit if need be, in the day.

Let me know what subject(s) you want to discuss.

Good night all.

So here we go. Oh my God. Oh my God ; a phrase I was never allowed to say growing up, but that is taken as par for the course here in Uganda, even by seasoned Christians.

Why am I saying this phrase?

Because I’m about to embark (actually, I started an hour and a half ago) on the process of journeying towards healing. From CSA. For those who don’t know what that means or stands for, it’s this: Childhood Sexual Abuse.

As a survivor of CSA, I need healing. My God (He’s going to be addressed a lot during this post) , I have tried to start this journey so many times before. Twenty years ago this autumn is the first time I told anyone outside of myself and my abusers. The road to volume and confidence in speaking has been steep and torturous since then. I have bought, been given, found so many healing books since then. And today I have not a single one of them. Why? Because I have retreated from the pain of confrontation of thorny abuse time and again. I’ve donated some of the books to bookshops and stalls, still in pristine condition. Others I have buried within donations for charity shops. Others I have dipped into and shelved, challenged and unready for the work of healing found within their pages. And then, thankfully, several books were amongst the precious possessions stolen from our container, somewhere between/in Mombasa and Kampala.

Some of these books are:

1. The Courage to Heal Workbook
2. Life on the Seabed
3. Michael Rosen’s Sad Book
4. The Orchard on Fire (novel)
5. The Story of Holly and Ivy (this touches on my story with Ella; I missed my original copy and so bought one with the same cover design off eBay)
6. Moonfleet (not to do with abuse of this nature, but my favourite novel, and sadly, my grandfather’s named copy)
7. Life and Loss: Stories of … (I don’t remember the full title, but it was a collection of accounts and stories from women who had lost children)
8. Beyond the Tears – Lynn Tolson
9. Hope and Healing: survivors (don’t remember full title, but a book of survivors’ accounts of CSA)

There are many other books I no longer remember, but many on the topic of healing from the trauma of CSA. At different points I have hurled books across bedrooms (instability of location has become a pattern, leading to multiple dwelling places). I’ve slumped back into denial as being easier to deal with than the fresh hurt of honesty over events all others deny. I’ve felt unable to work through workbooks, despite being at a place (for a long time, now) of being able to say I was abused. I’ve had counsellors, many and various. I’ve had police interaction, incomplete and bewildering. I’ve had initials of diagnoses tagged together, longer than my 32-letter full name. I’ve had medications nauseating and powerful. I’ve had mental hospital stays. Admittedly, a slew in one year (2017), but interminable enough to feel decades-long.

Has any of this helped? Maybe.

Will this latest book help? Maybe.

Have I yet thrown it across the room? Yes. Because I disagreed with a definition of CSA that discounted my experience in one massive aspect.

Am I willing to read it further, to pursue the potent possibility of healing? Yes. I believe I am.

So on this cusp of International Women’s Day, I’d like to give this gift to myself: I believe you. It was CSA. That is CSA. Speak your truth, darlin, and let’s hope the books come back.

I look up and see him entering the café.

I remember the first time; how my heart beat wildly and I had to remind myself I was married, whilst a neon sign flashed on and off in my head, screaming, “INSANELY GOOD-LOOKING! INSANELY GOOD-LOOKING!”.

I remember wishing, “Please don’t be her friend! Please don’t be her friend!”, until he came up to our table, grasped her hand in both his, kissed her cheeks, and greeted her in their mother tongue. Then all I wanted – desperately wanted – was to be able to speak those words he loved with his tongue; to understand the jokes he made in his loud, warm voice. I wanted to cause the laughter lines I saw beside his eyes to deepen, wanted to hold his attention, and with it, his dancing eyes. Wanted to thrill and flush under his unwavering gaze. With those eyes. Brown and kind. And simply impossible to turn away from. I couldn’t tell if he liked me; I didn’t have the facility with language. I could have sung to him lovers’ trills, my tongue lilting around archaic expressions of everyday themes, notating my desire through ancient arias. But Bea, beautiful Bea, she of the laughing eyes and easy attraction, with her soulful voice I wanted to match, she said the words I knew were not common parlance. The idioms were strained; strained like my eagerness, tugging against the leash of my restraint: the ring on my left hand.

Anyway, this was Bea’s date.

They laughed on, at ease with each other, while I wondered why I was there, tempted and teased by someone perhaps unaware. Bea had invited me, so I was happy to observe, occasionally laughing when she or her doting dad, animated on the sofa beside me, would translate some joke into my understanding.

But I wanted him to myself.

I prayed, later, against my own vows, for God to give me chance alone with this gorgeous stranger. I casually said goodbye, walking alone up the café’s sloping drive, hoping he would catch me up, deliberately not turning back. I wanted to appear adventurous and exciting, nonchalantly swinging my motorbike helmet in my left hand. He caught me up, and asked if I had a motorbike. I explained my helmet was for boda rides, hoping he was impressed nonetheless. We cut through the grass and dust, avoiding the busy cars, and headed towards the mall.

He gave me his hand and pulled me up a dirt bank my gripless sandals couldn’t manage. I wished I weighed less. He asked about my home, and I misunderstood, thinking he was asking how long I would live in this country, foreign to us both, but beloved of him and loathed by me. He interrupted and clarified his query, and I understood. He asked if my home was near. I couldn’t gauge my position. What was he really asking me? Uncertain, and not wanting to appear foolish, but still needing to articulate my desire, I suggested we exchange numbers. I liked the sound of his name from his own lips.

In further stilted English he told me of his next movements, ambiguous to my feverish mind.

We shook hands and he left.

Like a ship keeling to the massy storm, I reeled and flailed for balance.

He got me off-kilter. I was out of my depth in uncharted waters, sinking fast. My mind raced over his words, unable to grasp hold of any sentiment or phrase that would right me again. And so I capsized in a dry shopping mall.

I wandered around for half an hour, my thumb on his contact, pleading with the same God – this time in favour of my vows – to deliver me from this gorgeous stranger. I puzzled over his words – why did he tell me he was going to shower? I longed to know his culture, to interpret his text and subtext. Thinking of reasons to call him, but feeling unsure of his meaning, I eventually called home. Relief flooded me, pushing back the wave of desire.

So I have reached today. A year on, sporadic messages have left me still uncertain, still intrigued. His last messages, typical of the push-pull with which I now associate him, are endearing and slightly odd:

“This is who?”

Stormie, of course.

“Sorry. My phone is with a problem. We meet on Saturday?”

Yes.

Hearing nothing more from him, I have assumed he will come. I am relieved to see him now. He stands in the doorway, filling the frame, his mask lowered. His face is relaxed. He surveys the tables. His eyes alight on mine. Those same intense eyes. I raise my left hand, ignoring my ring. He gives a slight smile, walks my way, extends his hand. He grasps my hand in both his, says his name. The physical contact ignites the old thrill, and my neck warms.

We sit, he asks what I would like, and it hits me: he doesn’t recognise me.

How does he not know I am Stormie, the sender of all the cute cat photos? I have no interest in cats, but he is a vet. I thought we bonded over the cat stuck in my neighbour’s tree, and drifted because COVID-19 meant he couldn’t come back to the city.

He speaks slowly and with deliberation: this is not his mother tongue. We share the same appetisers from a year ago, but he makes no mention of any other occasion. He merely asks, “This is good, no?”, to which I agree, too enthusiastically.

Our “date” ends, and he escorts me up the same drive, the same motorbike helmet made in his country dangling from my wrist. We walk and chat towards the mall, him pulling me up the same slope my same gripless shoes still can’t manage. I weigh less. He doesn’t notice. Inside the mall, I feel myself sinking. I surface for air, again clueless as to his feelings. I want to extend our time together, want to ask him how he doesn’t recognise me; want to fathom him. I suggest we should exchange numbers. He makes no demur. I tilt my screen, typing his names in reverse order, still in love with the way his mouth caresses those sounds. I don’t want him to see my awkwardness – I have his number already, and he has mine. I don’t want him to feel foolish. He types my name, my number, but doesn’t seem surprised or recognise the details. His phone is in league with him: it creates a new contact for me.

He still doesn’t know me. He plays out the scene just as he did last year. He tells me he will now shower, before his evening meeting. He takes my hand in both his, lightly kisses my cheeks.

“I shall remember you, Stormie”, he says.

“You are having the name of my kitten. It is good meeting you, Bea’s friend!”

I just submitted this in response to a Reedsy prompt.

My aim is to write and submit at least one story per week, on www.reedsy.com .

Pretty cool for the writers among us!

Please let me know your thoughts; feedback is appreciated!

This is what my blog post page says. When I start typing, that encouragement disappears, kind of like the basis for most of the stories, when challenged, of the Ugandans amongst whom I try to live and move and have my being.

Stories.

We were at a summer fête. I was there in my rôle as Vicar’s daughter: the expression of his purity. In his capacity as enabler, listener, parish priest he walked around, joking with stall holders and local farmers, writing appointments into his Filofax. He had already cut the ribbon. Declared the fête open. Been suitably ceremonial. Now he was jovial, plain clothes policeman of his ecclesiastical order. Clerk in Holy Orders stowed in the vestry, ready for Sunday’s liturgy and ritual. This was Saturday. A day for drinking ale and bowling between hay bales. A day for eating cream teas and counselling newly-weds. A day for hob-nobbing with Morris Dancers. Who needed a Vestal Virgin. At that precise moment. When I was caught off-guard, innocently sharing conversation with a congregation member. Then the strike: “We need a Vestal Virgin”. I didn’t know what it meant.

I didn’t know what it meant.
I didn’t know what it meant. Only that it wasn’t me. I thought they said Vessel Virgin, and my mind threatened for a split-second to tumble down a nearby rabbit hole of thoughts to do with bearing clean water and a Holy Child. I slammed the brakes on my internal literary investigations, and tried desperately to remain present, to get out of being nailed to a crucifix for which I was not worthy. I guess I was dissociating. There are, for me, trigger words that will separate me from my present self. They rip apart facets aspects sinews of myself as a bullet would. Trigger words. Gunning for me. Virgin is one of those.

I heard their words in slow motion,

“W-e — n-e-e-d — a — V-e-s-t-a-l — V-i-r-g-i-n” –.

I moved quickly, my external spliced from my questioning internal. Inside, I turned those words, unfamiliar, over in my mind. Outside, I fled behind my father’s back. He wasn’t wearing his cassock. There were no forgiving folds in which I could envelop myself. His priestly pardon couldn’t help me now. Couldn’t help him, now.

I’m shorter than my father. I’m slight. Or I was then. Before children. He’s not a big man, my father. He’s not a big physical presence, so why does he terrorise my dreams, Goliath to my Israelite army? He was useless in that instant. Overarching (but providing no support or defense) theme for my life: the non-protective Protector. His was the place to say, “Shall we ask one of these young ladies?”, and indicate a local farmer’s girl. Oh, wait, no: that would be weird. That would indicate there were some non-virginal aspect about me. Can’t have that. How will the Vicar stay unbesmirched?

So he said nothing.

I was brought out from my useless hiding place, hoisted high above the now-gathering crowd, so all could see my non-virginity (ironically, I wore a white top that day), and I could not die of shame in the brightening sun.

That wasn’t the ugly part.

The ugly part came first, when a woman unknown suddenly screeched, “She’s not a virgin! She’s not a virgin!”, her finger defining me in the air it broke with its demarcating stab, her grating cackle of delight shrilling and piercing the breath around my ears.

So, woman whose name I never learned, this is probably addressed to you.

A benediction (that’s posh for kind words):

May your daughters die in their virginity; unblemished, unbesmirched, unspotted, unwanted, unlusted after, unabused.

May their purity blind you with its whiteness, making your shadow the embodiment of seen evil.

May their separation unto an ideal split your life in half, leaving you ever bereft, ever ideology-less, ever purposeless.

May you yearn for their children – your grandchildren – and go mad, imagining them at your hands, pulling, asking, loving.

May you live long, long, and long, feeling every moment of childlessness more keenly because you are childed, and they are not.

May you have no answer to their desperate, “Why?”, and may your full quiver separate them from you in life through jealousy, and in death through different destinies.

May you be eternally tormented by that phrase Vestal Virgin, ever see me in your dreams, lifted higher and higher, my own children surrounding me.

May you reap back on your own head what you sowed, and learn, at the last, to never ever ever criticise the child for the sins of the father; learn too late to never mock the abused; learn too late that rape may make a child a mother, may unvirginify a Vicar’s daughter, may separate separate separate.

High tide of grief for a family I didn’t know, but who were only at two removes from me: the son and his family of my aunt’s close friends.

The nature of death shocking and numerous – four out of six dead, and two fighting for their lives in hospital.

Satan on the warpath. Knowing he doesn’t win won’t assuage grief.

Lord, remember them.

O, Comforter, draw near.

14th of October 2020

At one remove, able to see what I could be doing better. Able to give the advice I’ve tried to impart over years, in those five minutes making a cup of tea, not looking at the angsty one. And if she does catch the hateful look, it isn’t for her, so she can ignore it and not be wounded or grounded or floored or broken by it.

She makes my mistakes look easy.

She makes my griefs seem unnecessary.

It’s obvious to her, looking on from beyond, from the safety of the distance of years, what I should have done.

Behind her barricade of experiences, shared and unshared, her bare heart could be bleeding and broken, but she will not let me know. Won’t let me into her fortress of years. She, by her silence, says I must build my own. I cannot share her wisdom. I must form my own.

Just as pregnancy cannot be shared in another’s body, so motherhood, she insinuates, cannot be shared in this other’s life.

She leaves me to stumble on blindly, accusing me with a foreign tongue of not loving her son right. Of not raising her grandchildren how she wanted.

She has not seen: this man – her son – he, as man, not boy, is my husband. These children – her grandchildren – they, as children, simple, not grand, are my children. They have made me a mother. They have made her Grand.

The hierarchy of titles does not recognise me as the prime source of their being.

He has made her a mother. But I have made him a husband, as he has made me woman, wife, mother to these, who will in turn make others grander than their beginnings.

One day, my children’s children will make me Grand.

But I pray I will not crush their mothers.