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occurred.
I had to put all of this into perspective for Bess, but it wasn’t easy.
It would never be easy.
This was me, my garbage, my life, my past.
As the school bell rang out, echoing around the playground, I was suddenly aware of where I was. Sally, one of the other mums, was standing ten feet in front of me and waved as I looked up. I waved back. I waited another five minutes before the boys appeared. As they came through the double doors, they looked happy, giggling as usual. I was glad of the distraction that was my children. Without them, I would probably have fallen apart. They, along with Sam, kept me upright; able to face the days as they came my way, although I don’t think they ever really knew just how much I needed them.
I could not believe how quickly the rest of the week passed. Each day the same tasks were completed: breakfasts and packed lunches prepared, playgroup sessions attended and waiting daily at the school gates for the end-of-the-day bell to ring. Dinner making, bath times, family-together times and just-me-and-Sam times.
The weekend came in the front door and flew out of the back door, and before I knew it, it was ‘that day’ again. It seemed to emerge as quickly as if it were a Tuesday, appearing just twenty-four short hours later. It was a day I now called and regarded as ‘Bess’s Day’.
So I did all the usual chores that I had to do and took the boys to school. Bess had phoned me on Friday to ask if I minded if she came at ten rather than ten thirty. I’dtold her I didn’t mind, but spent the weekend wondering if there was any particular reason for the change. At ten on the dot Bess arrived.
I answered the door as usual to her cheery greeting:
‘Hi Sarah.’
‘Hi Bess.’
We exchanged greetings so familiarly and casually you would have thought we had been doing it for years. Bess walked into the lounge and made her way to her usual place, and as she sat down, she completed her task of laying out her folder, papers, pens and diary in just the same ‘matter of fact’ way as she would have done in her own home.
She asked me how I had been that week, and I shared with her my thoughts about how I felt responsible and to blame for many of the actions that had shaped my life when I was a young girl. I told her that the only thing I ever wanted to do was grow up without anything major happening in my life, as other girls I knew had. After listening to what I had said, Bess spoke with comforting gentleness to me:
‘Sarah, you can’t blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault. You have to believe that. Many adults do things they know they shouldn’t. They know the things they are doing are wrong, yet they still do them. It isn’t the child’s responsibility to make sure adults behave in the correct way; it’s theirs and theirs alone. They are responsible, Sarah, not you.’
As Bess’s words hit home, I wanted so urgently to believe her, but it was hard. I knew deep in my heart that what she was saying was almost certainly true; yet I felt that I couldn’tallow it to be so. As I listened to Bess’s sentiments, and felt the comfort that they were bringing, it all still felt wrong. I still felt to blame. I should have asked for help and I didn’t.
After all, I could have run away and hadn’t done so. I don’t know why not. I think it was because of fear, and the fact was, I had no one to run to and nowhere to go.
I sat for the next hour telling Bess how Bill had first touched me: slowly with his fingers at first (I remember feeling like he was exploring me), and then how he had actually used his penis to penetrate me a few weeks later. I hated him. I hated this man for everything: for my sleepless nights, for my dreams and for all the bad memories that had entwined themselves, like creeping vines, in every available nook and cranny in my mind. I hated him for the fact that I felt I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. I hated him for taking trust away from me before I got chance to even