âADHDâ, ârebelliousâ. Theyâre not. Theyâre in some way being fucked. Look into it.
As you get older it becomes even more ingrained, like breathing. Sometimes, occasionally, itâll take us unawares. Especially first thing in the morning or when weâre overtired. And so in case weâre not quite bringing our A game when weâre asked a question, we perfect the whole distraction routine: âGod youâre looking beautifulâ, âFuck, my back just twingedâ, âI love you so muchâ, âI was just thinking about when . . . (insert romantic memory here)â, or more commonly, we stare into space pretending to be lost in thought and not hearing the question when in fact our brains are already racing to come up with a suitable answer. Anything to buy enough time to figure out the goddamn suitable answer.
We are multi-tasking, quick-thinking, hyper-aware, in-tune bastards. And it is a thankless, ceaseless, never-ending deluge of threat upon threat, fire after fire that has to be put out instantly. And because the body/brain cannot figure out the difference between real and imagined terror, they react as if we really are in the middle of a genuine war.
War is the best word to describe the daily life of a rape survivor. There are threats everywhere, you cannot relax ever, you take whatever you can get whenever you can get it because you are so scared of it not being there tomorrow â food, sex, attention, money, drugs. Andyou keep going on a mixture of adrenaline and terror. Morals go out of the window, the rulebook doesnât exist any more, you will survive at all costs no matter what. And living like that has certain knock-on effects. I cannot begin to tell you how fucked up the physical symptoms of abuse are. I spent years, decades even, almost chained to a toilet. As a kid at boarding school I was in there pretty much every night, usually around 3 a.m., in agony. Sweating and nauseous from the pain, feeling like there was a knife being twisted into my guts. Shitting what felt like water, too scared to leave the loo for at least two hours. Same again in the morning. I swear I got through childhood on around three to four hoursâ sleep a night. Itâs great for maintaining weight loss, not so good for socialising.
I know Iâm going on about this quite a lot. But honestly, thereâs a lot to go on about. It is so easy to assume the abuse stops once the abuser is no longer in the picture and so hard to hear that that is only the beginning of it for those taking the abuse.
It didnât get better as an adult. That horrific feeling of being on a packed tube on the way to work, sweat pouring off my face, soaking through my shirt, guts absolutely wrenched in pain, not sure if I was going to make it to the loo in time. Sometimes yes, sometimes no. I could write a guide to the best easy-access toilets in London. I will, to the day I die, be grateful to luxury hotels. Shuffling into the Dorchester, the Lanesborough, the Ritz trying to look as if I belonged there and heading straight to the john just as my guts exploded in the warm safety of the locked marble-encrusted interior. Luxury hotels fit the bill only because they have multiple stalls and solid doors â Christ, Claridgeâs even has a white noise machine outside to preservedecorum. Popping into a Starbucks single cubicle for a terror-dump is a no-no purely because of the fear of a queue forming outside, noises being heard, judgment, stress, anxiety, not enough time.
I look at it on paper and feel baffled that I made it through boarding school, even with the help of music, fantasy and cigarettes. An anxious kid, shitting all the time, not sleeping, twitching dozens of times an hour, no social skills, terrified all the time, hooking himself out to strangers, smoking and drinking and yet this kid somehow made it to adulthood. It is a fucking miracle. And yet rather than feel
As you get older it becomes even more ingrained, like breathing. Sometimes, occasionally, itâll take us unawares. Especially first thing in the morning or when weâre overtired. And so in case weâre not quite bringing our A game when weâre asked a question, we perfect the whole distraction routine: âGod youâre looking beautifulâ, âFuck, my back just twingedâ, âI love you so muchâ, âI was just thinking about when . . . (insert romantic memory here)â, or more commonly, we stare into space pretending to be lost in thought and not hearing the question when in fact our brains are already racing to come up with a suitable answer. Anything to buy enough time to figure out the goddamn suitable answer.
We are multi-tasking, quick-thinking, hyper-aware, in-tune bastards. And it is a thankless, ceaseless, never-ending deluge of threat upon threat, fire after fire that has to be put out instantly. And because the body/brain cannot figure out the difference between real and imagined terror, they react as if we really are in the middle of a genuine war.
War is the best word to describe the daily life of a rape survivor. There are threats everywhere, you cannot relax ever, you take whatever you can get whenever you can get it because you are so scared of it not being there tomorrow â food, sex, attention, money, drugs. Andyou keep going on a mixture of adrenaline and terror. Morals go out of the window, the rulebook doesnât exist any more, you will survive at all costs no matter what. And living like that has certain knock-on effects. I cannot begin to tell you how fucked up the physical symptoms of abuse are. I spent years, decades even, almost chained to a toilet. As a kid at boarding school I was in there pretty much every night, usually around 3 a.m., in agony. Sweating and nauseous from the pain, feeling like there was a knife being twisted into my guts. Shitting what felt like water, too scared to leave the loo for at least two hours. Same again in the morning. I swear I got through childhood on around three to four hoursâ sleep a night. Itâs great for maintaining weight loss, not so good for socialising.
I know Iâm going on about this quite a lot. But honestly, thereâs a lot to go on about. It is so easy to assume the abuse stops once the abuser is no longer in the picture and so hard to hear that that is only the beginning of it for those taking the abuse.
It didnât get better as an adult. That horrific feeling of being on a packed tube on the way to work, sweat pouring off my face, soaking through my shirt, guts absolutely wrenched in pain, not sure if I was going to make it to the loo in time. Sometimes yes, sometimes no. I could write a guide to the best easy-access toilets in London. I will, to the day I die, be grateful to luxury hotels. Shuffling into the Dorchester, the Lanesborough, the Ritz trying to look as if I belonged there and heading straight to the john just as my guts exploded in the warm safety of the locked marble-encrusted interior. Luxury hotels fit the bill only because they have multiple stalls and solid doors â Christ, Claridgeâs even has a white noise machine outside to preservedecorum. Popping into a Starbucks single cubicle for a terror-dump is a no-no purely because of the fear of a queue forming outside, noises being heard, judgment, stress, anxiety, not enough time.
I look at it on paper and feel baffled that I made it through boarding school, even with the help of music, fantasy and cigarettes. An anxious kid, shitting all the time, not sleeping, twitching dozens of times an hour, no social skills, terrified all the time, hooking himself out to strangers, smoking and drinking and yet this kid somehow made it to adulthood. It is a fucking miracle. And yet rather than feel
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