I have written an account of my childhood.  In it there are four separate incidents of sexual abuse (from four separate individuals) ranging from minor to major, of which only two have been publicly shared before. One or maybe two were one offs, two were more persistent. Admittedly the experiences with the teacher, which I still hope will go to court, were the worst and probably the most damaging. Possibly for the sake of convenience, this is where I place the blame for my subsequent delinquent behaviour.  As mentioned in other blogs, it wasn’t so much the acts in themselves, it was the secrecy and denial they engendered that caused the sickness.
Having been to hell and back, I can now say that I wouldn’t swap my life. I am glad that I am outside your society and I am generally pleased with the person I have become. Of course things could be better, but isn’t that true for everyone?
But I want to close the book and move on. I don’t want to keep these secrets any longer. But in my account of what happened with the deputy head of my school when I was ten, I feel like I’m misleading readers by not mentioning the two events that preceded it.
But if I were to publish, it would destroy other lives I care about. So at least for a while longer I feel that I must keep silent.
A not so innocent ten year old


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