Danson - Empty Chairs: Much more than a story about child abuse

Empty Chairs

Much more than a story about child abuse

by

Stacey Danson

ISBN 1453858520

EAN 978-1453858523

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Empty Chairs was first published by Night Publishing, a trading name of Valley Strategies Ltd., a UK-registered private limited-liability company, registration number 5796186. Night Publishing can be contacted at: http://www.nightpublishing.com.

Empty Chairs is the copyright of the author, Stacey Danson, 2011. All rights are reserved.

The cover design is by Sessha Batto and is her copyright, 2011. All rights are reserved.

Note from the Author

Recent events in my small world have caused me to think deeply about the responsibility I have, that we all have, to make people aware of what can and does happen in a home that may well be right next door to you.

It is time.

I dont want to remember a lot of what happened, but I do. I knew that writing it and taking myself back over the abuse would be difficult; however, I hadn't counted on the panic or the flashbacks. While I write, I keep taking breaks outside, sitting in the cool night air and forcing myself to breathe deeply.

I must do this. I made a promise to someone that someday I would. Ends up 'someday' just got here a little later than I thought it would. I cannot distance my memories and reflect back unemotionally, because it was me feeling it, living through and beyond it.

I firmly believe that everything that happened has helped to make me who I am, and I am kind of fond of who I am these days. It has taken half a century to get here, but here I am.

Physically and emotionally, everything that made me who and what I was, was destroyed.

But they never got my soul. They didn't break me. Something in me refuses to be broken. I dont know what the hell you call it, but its strong. It burns inside me with a life force of its own. I will be the one who decides when it is to be extinguished.

Accidents and randomness of nature aside, I do not know how to give in

and I will never betray the child I was by giving up.

This book is dedicated to every child that never had a chance to be one.

To my beautiful daughter for making me glad I was born a woman.

To my friend Veronica for knowing and keeping the faith always.

To the men in my life that tried to love me.

To the man who loves me now, damage and all.

My heartfelt thanks to Tim Roux and Genevieve Graham-Sawchyn at Night Publishing for their unwavering support and editing advice. And primarily for taking this project on when many would have balked at the task.

To Sessha Batto, my friend, and talented artist for the superb book cover and Empty Chairs trailer.

To the friends who have stood behind me and held me up when I thought I would fall, my love and thanks.

Finally, in memory of Jenny, who died long before she ceased to breathe.

Chapter 1

There is no place to start this but with my first memories.

The sexual abuse began, I think, when I was around three years of age maybe four. It began with fondling. An adult, usually my mother, took my hand and placed it on a man's genitalia.

I should clarify. It was not just one man. There were many men.

It was a game at first. A game that caused my mother to smile and give me hugs of approval. Whatever male it happened to be at the time sure seemed happy about that game as well. I had no idea what it was, or why I was doing it. At that age, making Mommy smile was all that mattered.

Mommy didnt smile or hug me much up until then. She liked to hit me with a strap and yell a lot of the time. It was a relief to find something I could do that made her happy.

I dont recall when I started to hate the game, but I do know the first time they put that man's thing in my mouth it made me gag, and I started to cry. I had to be punished for that. Mommy and the man took it in turns to hit me. I screamed, asking them to please stop. They thought that was funny, and started laughing and making funny sounds, like a pig does when it squeals.

They dragged me to a small room in the back of the house where boxes and old things were stored. No light came into that room. It was smelly and dark. I could hear things scuttling around, but that didnt frighten me; indeed, I remember feeling a little thankful that some other live thing was in there with me. The darkness and the lack of air caused fear, my heart was already pounding from the terror of the beating, and now I gasped, not recognizing or understanding that this was the beginning of a lifetime of battling claustrophobia.

That was my first conscious memory of fear, and I didn't like it. Seemed to me this crying stuff was not such a good thing to do. I threw up all over myself, which stunk, and I wet myself, which stunk even worse. I remember that my back was sore and sticky; the singlet I had on was stuck to it. I wasnt wearing anything else.

I was unable to keep standing because my back hurt, and my small legs shook so badly. I crawled across to the door and lay with my mouth as close to the crack of light as I could get. I drew in huge breaths of the air filtering in underneath.

I dont know which of the adults heard me gasping, but very quickly something was placed on the other side of the door to block out the light and the air. I have no idea how long I was kept in the room. It seemed to me that I slept and woke up a few times. I was getting hungry and so thirsty. I started to feel sick again and vomited more, but I had stopped wetting myself. I kept getting thirstier and my stomach began to cramp up.

I just wanted to go to sleep and stay asleep. Nothing hurt me when I was sleeping.

When Mommy came to get me out I was so, so grateful. She hugged me and told me that she would bathe me because I smelled bad. If I were a good girl, I could have some lemonade and something to eat. When she gave me the lemonade, I tried to drink it all at once and threw up again. I waited for the slap.

She laughed instead, told me I was a silly-billy and to have small mouthfuls until my naughty tummy settled down. She explained to me that I didnt have to have that happen again as long as I did what the man wanted me to do. I recall saying that I would do anything I was told.

Please, Mommy can I not go back in the dark place?

She smiled at me and said, Well, we shall just see how good you can be.

Hey, I was bright. If she smiled and hugged me and called me silly-billy in her happy voice, well, sure I would do anything, anything at all. She had to bathe me with my singlet on, as it had stuck fast to my back with dried blood from the beating. I wanted to cry when she finally peeled it off, but I didnt. There was no way I was going back in the dark place again.

The area in which we lived was an inner suburb of Sydney, only a five minute bus ride from the shining harbor. I never saw either the harbor or the city until I was almost twelve.

I had never had a playmate or another childs company. When I wasnt busy making Mommys friends happy, I would sleep or watch television. I had no idea how to read. In fact, I didn't know what reading was. She made no mention of my learning to write my name or to write anything at all. I rarely left the house, and if I did, it was to hurry to the corner shop and get Mommy more cigarettes. I was not permitted to speak to anyone; she always gave me a note and exact change. I remember the fat little lady that worked in the shop sometimes asked me how I was. I never answered; she believed I was deaf or mute or both. What I was was afraid.