I slept in the dark for the first time last night. All my lights were off, appliances off, even the light in the fish tank was off. I didn't have to check under the bed, or close the bathroom door to, or double and triple check the bolts on my front door, either. It may not sound like much, but for me, this is a massive step forward. The only other time I've been able to sleep completely in the dark, was next to O, where I felt safe and loved.
It just goes to show a few things. How much comfort this flat is to me. This is my space, my living quarters, my home. There is one door to enter and leave through, and I'm on the first floor; so there is no-one waiting outside my windows to climb in and murder me in the night. I live in a studio flat, so everything (except the bathroom) is literally in one room. From where I am sat now, in the upper left corner of the flat, next to the window - I can see my entire home. A lot of people would find this too small, too cramped. Too... boxed in. But for me, this is perfect. I love being able to look around, and know that it is only me here, with my two Oranda goldfish - Harry and Henry, we are fine. I was very lucky to get this place, and sometimes I like to think luck was on my side that day I put the application in.
My Grandad always used to say that if someone looks over their shoulder constantly, they have a guilty conscience. For me, it wasn't as much as a guilty conscience, but a fear that I was being followed by ... him. I spent all of my dance lessons, paranoid that he would be waiting for me in the Church or the Church hall. Peering at me through the door, as I had caught him doing so many times before, making me aware of his presence.
One night, when I was five or six, I was in the Church preparing for the Christingle service with my dad and some of the elders in our Church community. While they were doing all of their adult bits, I was preparing the oranges - wrapping them in foil, piercing them for the candle, and attaching the cocktail sticks laden with jelly tots. I'd ran out of candles, and been sent into the choir rooms in the back of the church to get them, shooed away quickly because I was interfering and 'getting in the way'. I tried my best to get out of it, I hated going back there. That was where he had touched me the first time, and he said it was our 'special place'. I remember panicking and beginning to cry, and my dad led me back there with a huff, pulling me along - obviously angry I was disturbing him.
We entered the room and dad grabbed the candles, and he came in behind us. They talked for a while, as I semi-hid behind my dad's tall 6' 6" frame. He told my dad he had some things for me, and my dad told me I should stay and be polite. Be polite! I swear I remember my mouth going dry as I saw dad leave, and my stomach knotting over, and over, and over again as he approached the door, turning the lock behind my father.
The lights in the room went off, and the next thing I knew, I felt hands - big hands - running through my curls, down my neck.. my back. Pushing me down into a wooden chair that stuck into my back tightly. I remember heavy breaths, whispers that it would be okay, and this would teach me invaluable life skills. I remember hearing a zip which sounded like it was a sound effect through a microphone and wondering why no-one was coming to see where I was. I also remember being told that if I told anyone what was happening, that I'd not live to see another day.
That was just one of the many occasions that led to my fear of the dark, and you can probably guess what happened next. I don't feel ready to type the intricacies of what happened, but it wasn't nice, it wasn't pleasant, and I didn't stop it. I didn't know how to stop it, and it wouldn't stop for another eight or so years. So I guess this blog has a lot of life left in it yet. I'm finding blogging to be extremely cathartic, and I think it's helping? It has to help.. you can't go anywhere but up when you're at rock bottom, right?
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