Kate Skylark - Ugly Child: My Own Terrifying True Story of Child Abuse and the Desperate Fight for Survival

UGLY CHILD

My own terrifying true story of child abuse

and a desperate fight for survival

KATE SKYLARK as SIOBHAN LENNON

Copyright 2015 Kate Skylark

Disclaimer

This book is based on true events.

The names of people and places have been changed to protect the innocent.

COVER PHOTOGRAPH IS POSED BY A MODEL AND IS USED FOR ILLUSTRATIVE PURPOSES ONLY

For every book sold, a donation will be made to the

National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children (NSPCC).

Also by Kate Skylark

Dirty Little Dog: A Shocking True Story of Child Abuse and the Little Girl Who Couldnt Tell a Soul (with Sophie Jenkins)

Daddys Wicked Parties: The Most Shocking True Story of Child Abuse Ever Told (with Lucy Gilbert)

CHAPTER 1:
A Note from Kate

M Y REAL NAME IS NOT Kate Skylark. I cannot reveal my true surname for obvious reasons; but I will tell you my true first name. My first name is Siobhan. This lovely Irish name has been the cause of such misery to me over the years. Because being a Siobhan, rather than an Emma or a Louise or a Sarah or a Nicola, set me apart as different right from the very beginning.

When writing this book it rather sadly felt quite lovely to become a Kate. Kate is not different or unusual. Everyone has heard it before. Everyone can spell it. Kate is a solid, sensible, non-threatening name. Kate is confident and sure of herself.

Kate is everyones friend.

I am a victim of childhood sexual abuse and I also co-write books to enable others to tell their abuse stories. You may have read Dirty Little Dog and Daddys Wicked Parties, both of which I wrote in collaboration with the victims of those stories. Writing these books has been a sort of catharsis for me. I especially like the stories that have some element of revenge, of retribution. I like to be constantly reminded that good always overcomes evil. And this is why I continue to read stories of child abuse and to help others to tell their stories.

But for some time now, I have been putting off the inevitable. Although I knew it would eventually have to come out, for some time I have resisted telling my own story. I fully realise that my experiences of abuse are nothing like as bad as some of those I have read, or in those books I have helped write. Lucy and Sophie, the two little girls in the books I mentioned above, suffered far worse abuse than I ever did. I salute those girls, now women, for having the courage, first to turn their lives around, and second for having the strength to tell their stories. And their courage has given me the push I needed. After all, if they can do it with stories far worse than mine, what excuse can I possibly have for continuing to hide away?

But there is something quite different about my story. It is quite unlike any of those I have read, or those I have helped to write. Because my abuser was not my father, my teacher, or a random stranger. Not my uncle or stepdad, not a friend of the family. My abuser was altogether more unexpected than that.

CHAPTER 2

I WAS NEVER A BEAUTIFUL child. Or so I overheard my own grandmother saying once. She hadnt realised I was standing at the door while she and my auntie were looking over photos of my sister and me. Michaela was such a pretty baby, but Siobhan was never a beautiful child, she said sadly.

It was not a nice thing to say. But my grandmother was right. I have the photos to prove it. This is not the story of an adorable, angelic, doll-like little girl, with long blonde ringlets and huge blue eyes, like my sister, Michaela. This is the story of a large, gangly, awkward girl with fuzzy brown hair and rather greasy skin. I was not just large; I was also tall, really tall from an early age. I had to wear uniform for girls three years older than me. I felt, from early childhood, like an ugly, hulking, clunking, huge mass of a child. I was the one chosen to help carry things, to move chairs and lift tables. I never got to be Mary in the school nativity. I always got the part of the tree.

I was never popular with other children. You see, I was one of those odd ones, what they now call weirdos. Back when I was at school, weirdo was not a term widely used. But there were plenty of others. Spaz, Flid, Joey, Mong, Zitty, Sod, and one that started in very early childhood, one that was right there with my earliest memories.

Freak.

But there was more. When I was born, mine was a breach birth and I came out the wrong way around and upside down. My mother had a very traumatic labour and I missed out on the required amount of oxygen. Not much, but just enough to have a very tiny effect on me. I was left with a very, very mild case of cerebral palsy, or spasticity as it was still often called back then. Most of the time this mild disability was barely noticeable. Most onlookers would never assume I was anything but one hundred per cent normal. But what my very mild case of spasticity did to me was devastating. It made me look, move and speak ever so slightly differently. And those who were a bit different didnt have an easy time of it.

One hand was ever so slightly turned inward. My legs a little loose, as if they werent properly attached at the hip. My head didnt have the quick, flirty movements of the other girls, but moved more slowly, deliberately. My eyes opened a little too wide, my speech was a little stilted, like I was adding in extra consonants.

All this combined to give the impression, not of a disabled child, but of a weird child, an odd child, a clumsy, awkward, insufferably gauche child. I remember seeing a troupe of chimpanzees on television and the way they attacked a cuddly toy introduced into their cage. They screamed and ran around shouting, throwing stones at the odd thing. I have also seen a whole group of mallard ducks in a pond attack the one white duck, ganging up on it because it didnt fit in. Thats how I felt, most of the time. And that is how I was, I was the odd thing the irritatingly, maddeningly different thing. Not quite disabled enough to inspire pity or condescension, and not normal enough to love. I simply wasnt easy to like . I was just a bit spooky, a bit bewildering, a bit wrong: a bit weird .