Firstly let me make it  totally clear that i do not have a racist bone in my body. It doesn’t matter if you are pink, green, yellow or sky-blue; it’s always who you are underneath that matters. In writing my blog, my reference to a ‘black man’ is only because the blog that i am about to write just happens to be about my experience with a Jamaican man which was, unfortunately, an awful one. He could have been any colour and some of my closest friends are friends with different colour skin to my own and i love them dearly. STATEMENT OVER!

I’ve never written about my experience here ever before, so goodness knows why i am writing it in a public blog. Maybe because it is anonymous, maybe it’s because it’s bothering me right now as i’m getting flashbacks, and maybe it’s to let anyone else, male or female, who has been through a similar perpetration, know that they are not alone.

Those of you who know me will be aware that i was severely sexually and emotionally abused by my late father, from the age of four till i was thirteen. I don’t mention this other violation very often, if hardly at all. I don’t know why. Perhaps, it is because it is a real ‘skeleton in the closet’ i haven’t dealt with enough in therapy yet.

When i was eight years old, my parents decided that i should have piano lessons as i’d always liked music. They found me a tutor who just happened to be the music teacher at the primary school i attended, called Mr H who just happened to be Jamaican but a very stern man. He lived only one road away from where i lived so it was near enough (in those days) to let a child of eight, walk there alone in the evenings. And so i did, twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays from 5.30pm till 7.30pm. Occasionally, one of parents picked me up in their car afterwards. I took to music like a duck to water and loved both the practical and theory side, ever eager to learn. Mr H was very complimentary and we often played simple duets together, although i was somewhat uncomfortable having a man so close to me as i was going through my father’s abuse of me at home. He made a fuss of me, telling me i was pretty, i was clever i was a fast learner and how pleased he was with my progress when i passed my Grade I pianoforte exam in London. I felt very special. However, i wasn’t entirely happy, something felt wrong especially when he started putting the bolt on at the top of the door, where i couldn’t reach, in the basement room we were in. It was a small dingy room, badly lit so all the decor seemed one beige colour. The piano was in one corner, a couch in another and Mr H’s low-slung chair with its back to the wall. The carpet was patterned and there were two slightly faded pictures of small boats of the walls. There was a lamp on the top of the piano along with a loud metronome ticking a beat. Having begun my Grade II lessons, have sailed through the first, i was keen to learn more. And that’s when Mr H started issuing commands! I’d get to the end of a piece of music and suddenly he would issue, loudly, the command “Come” at the same time as patting his leg. So, being the ‘good girl’ i had to be at home, i did as i was told. He was sitting in his chair, long , thin legs akimbo and beckoned me to sit on his lap. After a while, he began touching me intimately and also made me rub the fly area of his trousers, which i really wasn’t comfortable with. That progressed to him touching and abusing me more obviously, and he would then unzip his fly to reveal a very large, black penis which he commanded that i rub, him pressing on my hand with his stronger one so i couldn’t pull away. His breathing became heavy and then suddenly, i felt this revolting slime in my hand which he made no attempt to wipe away. I felt so dirty. He wasn’t content to stop at that – it slowly progressed to rape of my eight year old child’s body which, of course, i didn’t know it was wrong as my father treated me the same. I, in my naivety believed this is what all men did to little girls despite the pain inflicted on me. Worse was to come!!

He started to push me down to the floor so i was on my knees situated between his two thighs, his fly undone, his manhood standing proudly erect. My father’s stinking, smaller white one was nothing like this large, black post in front of me. And then, to my horror, he demanded that i lick this object and put it in my mouth. I didn’t want to. I was a very frightened eight-year old. I daren’t cry and didn’t know how to say ‘NO’ so he grabbed my head tightly, as if it were a football and forced it up and down onto to his exposed penis. I gasped for air, i gagged, i wanted to be sick, i was terrified to the extreme, i couldn’t get away, i couldn’t run out of the room as the door was firmly bolted. I was trapped and forced to perform oral sex on this revolting, terrifying man and me, only a wee small child, thought i was going to die and at that point i left my body and i watched the scene from the place i had gone to behind the wall. Then suddenly, my mouth was full of the same slime that had been on my hands. I wanted to get rid of it but he lifted my head and demanded “don’t you dare be sick; don’t you dare spit it out”, and he forced me to swallow every last drop. He had invaded the whole of my being, inside and out. I envisaged my tummy full of wriggling worms and then started to cry, feeling so contaminated. He demanded i stop crying immediately; he stood me up from being on my knees and insisted i continue to play the piano. Eventually, he unbolted the door and i fled up the basement steps into the street where i stood alone, shaking violently and sobbing. I think i must have been in shock as i remember little of the walk home. I remember knocking on the door, my Mother opening it and saying “did you have a good piano lesson?” and me, smiling sweetly, nodding and coming into the house where life resumed as normal! No-one had any idea what i was going through twice weekly, and this continued until i was a very scared, quiet, timid thirteen year old.

Is it any wonder, i went on to develop eating disorders, self harm, personality problems and later addictions and was eventually diagnosed with Borderline Personality  Disorder which is a serious psychiatric disorder. Also Dissociative Disorder. I didn’t tell a soul until i finally cracked up by which time i was thirty-something years old and somehow had managed to marry and have two children. When i eventually told of my horrific abuse by two men, i was accused by my family of lying ‘to get attention’…..if only that were the case. Eventually, i was assigned to a therapist who i saw for eight years and now, still have therapy with a different therapist. I am slowing getting back to some semblance of life although i do have terrifying flashbacks, a hated of piano music, a fear of black men and the many psychiatric disorders i’ve been labelled with.

However, life goes on regardless, and i am still here, more by luck than judgement as i have overdosed and tried to commit suicide too many times to count. I have now become, not only mentally unwell for which i receive appropriate medication, but now also physically disabled, needing carers three times a day. BUT, don’t get me wrong; i do not feel sorry for myself, or pathetic. I DO feel very, very angry and am plagued by flashbacks and nightmares, but i am getting on with my life and making the best out of a very bad situation.

I sincerely apologize if this has stirred up raw emotions for you as readers. It might even be banned from publishing for all i know. I just needed to tell my story. Thank you so much to those of you who have read this far. I know many of you have suffered similar experiences so i am sending my sincere love and big hugs to you all and pray that i’ve not hurt anyone too deeply.



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