NOBODY TOLD ME is the sequel to my Number One bestseller I DID TELL I DID. That was my first book and went to Number One in less than 2 weeks. It has sold more than 91,000 copies and is now published in Poland and Russia.

My second title has to be a stand alone book for new readers, without repeating the whole story in depth as I did in I DID TELL.

Although the story centres on the same events, as it is my life span, it is written from a different perspective. It focuses on my relationship with the medication and not with the relationship with Mum or my abuser Bill

NOBODODY TOLD ME explains how the medication affected my reason and judgment and how the people who hurt me as a child were able to continue to hurt me for most of my life.

It focuses on the dependency and ultimately the withdrawal from Benzodiazopine drugs.

In this day of over prescribing of antidepressants and anti anxiety medication, this book is as relevant today as it was back in the 60's, 80's and 90's. Sadly,, all over the world, people are dependent on GP prescribed medication and suffering in the way I did in NOBODY TOLD ME. If things had been different, if someone had offered to talk to me about the problems in my life , if I had know at a young age what this medication was and what it could do, who knows, I DID TELL I DID might never have needed to be written..

 First two chapters of NOBODY TOLD ME

NOBODY TOLD ME

By Cassie Harte

CHAPTER ONE

The ceilings of the waiting room were very high with ornate cornices, giving an air of grandeur. I briefly wondered how the people who had lived in it, before it had become a doctor’s surgery, would feel about its use today. I was quite nervous about the imminent appointment. I was only fifteen and had agreed with my form teacher, to go to the doctor. She had assured me, that he would help with the constant headaches I was having. I thought, if I thought anything at all, and hoped, that he would make them better.

What will he ask me? How will I explain how I feel? Should I tell him how scared I am, all the time, how my life was full of pain and fear?

This could be my chance to get help, my chance to escape from the horror in my life.I looked around at the other patients, waiting to see their doctor and wondered if they were here looking for the same help as me. They looked okay so I didn’t think they had someone in their lives who was hurting and terrifying them.But I did and I wanted it to stop. But where would I start? I needed to tell someone, but should I? Could I tell him how I have been scared all my life, since forever?

And if I tell, will he believe me?

I probably didn’t look out of place amongst the other patients; I was very small for my age and quite frail looking. My long dark hair did nothing to enhance my pale appearance. I looked tired because I didn’t sleep very well.

So many things went through my head. Dr Oxley was our family doctor; he knew my mum very well so how could I tell him of her emotional cruelty and lack of love for me? How could I tell him, thatshewas part of my problem? I looked again at the people sitting in that cold waiting room. Could they see how I felt? Did they know what had happened to me?Does it show?

Suddenly, my nerves started to get the better of me; I began to feel very shivery. I thought of leaving, running out of the waiting room, afraid that I might say too much, but more afraid that I might say nothing at all.

“Cassie Black” came a voice from the door,”Doctor is ready for you now” The receptionist stood, holding the door open.

He may be ready for me, but am I ready to see him?

The room was formal and sparse, just a couch, a filing cabinet and a large wooden desk at which sat our family doctor. He was a large man, smartly dressed in a brown suit. He was a bit over weight and I suppose middle aged. He had grey silvery hair and kind eyes. That’s what I remember most about him from when he had come to see mum, the kindness in his eyes. But I couldn’t see his eyes that day. He was looking down at something on his desk.

           “Sit down Cassie” he said, gesturing to a chair the other side of his desk. He didn’t look up at first. ”How can I help you?”

He wants to help me; at last, someone wants to help me.

I was fidgeting nervously. It was a good job Mum wasn’t there, my fidgeting really annoyed her. I was afraid of Mum. She was a large formidable woman who never said a kind word to me. I was a timid child and fidgeted a lot in front of her. “Keep still girl, for goodness sake, your wriggling around in the chair really makes me mad” she would say. I recoiled at the thought of her anger and continued to look at Dr Oxley. There was a silence in the room, so I felt it was my turn to speak.

“I’m having really bad headaches” I said, feeling quite strong now. He looked up at me and I gained strength in his kind eyes.” When they come, which is most of the time, I feel as though my head is going to explode and sometimes I feel a bit sick. When I have the pain, I can’t seem to get rid of it”

           “Your Mum told me you’ve been chosen to take O’levels, does this entail more work?”

“Well, yes, it does and the headaches make it hard for me to concentrate” I answered hopefully, wanting him to ask more. I could feel my heart beating fast,Now’s my chance.

Stay strong he wants to help.I looked straight at him, pleading with him with my stare, to help me. I was hoping so much that I would be able to talk to him, tell him everything.

But then, suddenly, without warning, I started to cry, the sheer mention of mum and remembering her expectations of me, made me cry. I was so miserable all the time, what with her treatment of me, the pressure of my schoolwork and thenastiesin my life. I was really down and felt so alone. He looked at me again.

If he asks, should I tell him? Should I tell him of my scary life? He will ask, surely he will ask.

But he didn’t ask, he reached for his prescription pad and began to write.

           “These will stop the headaches and you’ll feel much better. If things don’t improve, come back and see me. I’m sure if you take the medication properly, you will feel much more able to concentrate because the pain will have gone” At this, he stood up, handed me the prescription and said goodbye. There was no arguing, no ‘Yes buts….’ from me. I was dismissed.

Was that it then? Was that helping me?I had only been in the surgery a few minutes. My doctor wasn’t concerned about the headaches, and he didn’t want to see me again. The pills would sort it all out! The fact that I had been suffering this pain for the past months, even years, seemed irrelevant. I realised, that as my life became scarier, so the headaches became more severe. But the pills would put all of this right, or so Dr Oxley said.

At first I felt cheated, cheated out of the opportunity to tell someone what my life was like. How my days were filled with fear, a darkness that I kept a secret. I so wanted to tell of the emotional cruelty at the hands of Mum. I felt a bit angry that I hadn’t been able to tell how life was. Not able to ask for the help I really needed. I had plucked up the courage to see the doctor and had hoped that he would question why I was having the headaches, try and find out what was worrying me.

But.

He never asked me. Why didn’t he ask me? Couldn’t he see my pain and fear? Didn’t it show in my whole being?

But I suppose, to be fair to our family doctor, why should he have asked me anything else. I was from what the outside world saw, a ‘good’ family. We lived in a council house in the ‘better’ part of the estate and to all who thought they knew her; Mum was a pillar of the society. I attended the local church where I was a member of the church choir. My brother Tom was a popular lad and my two older sisters, Ellen and Rosie, were, at this time both working at the local hospital. No, he had no reason to suspect anything was wrong in my life. So he treated the headaches.

He had said he wanted to help me, this doctor with kind eyes, but he didn’t.Because I never told him. He never asked me, so I never told.

 

On arriving home, nothing was said. As usual Mum wasn’t interested. I’d told her about the headaches as I had told her about my fear, right at the start, but she wasn’t interested.

“Headaches?” she had said,” what reason on earth would you have to have headaches, you’ve nothing at all to worry about, you have it easy, you should have the stress that I have, then you’d have reason to have headaches.” with that she had sent me off to carry out the numerous household chores that were part of my day. How could she say my life was easy? She knew, didn’t she?

 

“He kissed me Mum ” She sat looking at me with raised eyebrows. He kissed me and it hurt. I don’t like him kissing me like that it’s horrible. And he touched me there” I pointed between my legs “In my panties and it hurt”. I was looking at Mum, waiting for a response. Surely she will hold me now. Surely this will make her care. She remained calm and left the room. After a while I heard raised voices from downstairs. I thought she must be shouting at Uncle Bill. Forbidding him to ever come near me again. That’s what mums do. But no. After peaking out from the top of the landing and seeing him about to leave; I was shocked to see her kiss this man who had hurt me and tell him she didn’t believe me. He left. She called me downstairs “How could you be so wicked, tell such lies about Bill. He loves you” With that, she slapped me hard across the face. “Get up to your bedroom I don’t want this mentioned ever again. You’re an ungratefulliar ” I ran up to the safety of my room. I was 6 years old.

So she didn’t believe me then, why should she believe anything I say now .She just didn’t care, about the headaches, about what happened or me. Just didn’t love me or even care about me.

So on the day of the appointment, realising that at 15 years of age, Mum still had no interest in my welfare, I said nothing.

I didn’t tell her about the tablets or what had happened at the surgery, she didn’t ask. I’d never taken tablets before but wasn’t afraid. I just wanted to feel better, to be pain free so that I could cope. I had taken the prescription to the chemist without reading it, I trusted that they were what I needed, so I didn’t think to look and see what they were called. I don’t think my GP mentioned the name of the tablets. It wouldn’t have made any difference if he had. I had never heard of Benzodiazepine drugs, I don’t suppose many people had. It was the 1960’s and we were in awe of doctors, if they gave us tablets, we took them. No question, no thinking about it. I took them. I remember hoping, that if one little pill could make me feel better, take the pain away, then things would at least be bearable.

As the pain lessened, my condition improved, so I continued to take them. I was feeling better and I hadn’t had to tell. So he had helped me,hadn’t he?

The pills were available to have on repeat prescription, Dr Oxley had told me. “If these make you feel better and take the headaches away, just ask for more and I will write you a prescription” he had said at the first appointment, so repeat them I did. Who could blame me, my life became slightly more bearable, as the headaches had stopped and I was able to function as though there was nothing wrong.Pretendbecame easier, blocking the evil became something that I could do, had to do to survive. I had done this for years but now it was easier. As the headaches were lessening, it seemed I was able to cope, life was hard and the horrors continued, but nothing seemed quite as bad as it had before or maybe being resigned to it, made it more bearable. I didn’t realise that my judgement was already becoming impaired. I felt different but I wasn’t aware that my character was changing

After a few days, I was able to concentrate on my school work and reading had begun to be enjoyable again. I was sleeping at night, something that had not been happening up until then. Did I wonder at the power of these tablets? At this stage I don’t think I did, I was just relieved, that I was pain free and coping better. Without the pain, life was easier, so seeing my GP had been useful, even if he didn’t give me much of his time.

I was still seeing my childhood best friend Claire. She was ahappy, anin-between. We had been friends for years, since starting school. My times with her and her lovely family helped keep me sane. Through-out my childhood, her Mum and Dad, treated me as though I was theirs.If only. We used to spend a lot of time together but these times became fewer as we grew older.

Life was still hard and although I was finding things a little less stressful, Mum was still the same with me. Nothing had changed there but somehow I didn’t seem quite as scared of her as I had always been.

During one of my mother’s outbursts of anger towards me, shortly after seeing Dr Oxley, a few weeks after starting on the medication, I realised that something was different. Her words were the same, belittling and berating me, but I didn’t feel so upset by what was said. She was a larger than life woman, big with dark hair. She was a very powerful character, dominant over the whole family and although she wasn’t unkind to my siblings, she was no match for my dad. He was tall, thin and placid, a kind gentle man who was regularly the target for her venomous tongue and nasty ways. He did try and stand up to her for me, on occasion but she would all too soon shout him down. When Mum got angry, it scared me.

But I remember one occasion, about two weeks after starting on the medication; she began shouting at me because we had run out of milk.

“Why didn’t you notice?” she screamed. “You know I needed some extra for a rice pudding. You can’t do anything right. You’re useless; I don’t know why I kept you. No good for anything your not!” I didn’t even try and stand up to her, or even apologise as I would have done once, even though it wasn’t my fault. I just went upstairs out of her way. I noticed that instead of feeling really sad and hurt that she was picking on me once again, I felt nothing. It didn’t seem to bother me.

I put this down to my feeling better in myself, getting some sleep and so perhaps I was less sensitive. On the occasions that she hit out at me, slapping or pushing me, it didn’t seem to hurt as much. If I was in her path, or close to something she wanted to get to, she never asked me to move, or said excuse me, Oh no. She would push or slap me so that I moved away. “Get out of my way” she shouted, pushing me so hard that I fell against the banister. I saw her look at me,”Story of my life that, you, always in my way, get out!” I think she was waiting for me to complain or something, so that she could continue her onslaught. But now, her words just seemed to float over me without effect. I didn’t react in the usual way. I calmly walked away and went into the garden. Her aggression didn’t seem to touch me as it had before. I still felt hurt, still felt that I wasn’t wanted, but I felt calmer and a little removed from what was happening. Perhaps I thought I was becoming resolved to the fact that I wasn’t wanted by her, after all, I had found that out just before I had told her about Uncle Bill.

“She was a mistake. A very unfortunate mistake. Having her ruined my life”.

I was only six and Mum had told me to lay up a tray for her and my Auntie Pru, when I heard her say these words. I think I may have taken an intake of breath and she had heard me outside of the door. She came out of the room and screamed at me. ”You’re the reason for all the unhappiness in our family, you know that don’t you” As she screamed at me she was dragging me by my hair to the back door where she threw me into the garden.

After starting these tablets, almost from the first night I began sleeping a lot better, no nightmares and the headaches had gone. I had never taken pills in my life before but if this is what they were capable of then I would continue to take them.. After a month I had run out, Dr Oxley had said I could ask for more and so I rang the surgery and was told a new prescription for 3 months supply, would be ready for me to collect the following day. I had felt so much better taking this medication, these pills I was told were for my headaches, that I saw no harm in continuing with them. At that first consultation, when I was 15 years old, my doctor hadn’t encouraged me to talk; he hadn’t given me much time. Doctors didn’t back then. He hadn’t told me what the pills were, just that they would help me. He didn’t ask the right questions, any questions. But if he had, would I have told him?

I continued to take the tablets as instructed, not knowing that this was the beginning of the slippery slope. It was 1960, I was 15, I knew no better and trusted in my doctor, and after all they had helped me, hadn’t they?

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NOBODY TOLD ME.

CHAPTER TWO

For a while, after first seeing my GP I felt better . The source of my pain was absent, I didn’t know why but I didn’t care. I didn’t have to stay out of Uncle Bill’s grasp, or worry constantly that he would be there, asking to take me out. I was powerless to stop his assaults on my tiny body. He was a tall swarthy looking man with dark hair and was very strong; I stood no chance against him. When the abuse began, he would threaten me, saying that no one would believe me if I told. He was right. I told mum and she didn’t believe me. But now, for some reason, this evil man of whom I was terrified, wasn’t around and that was more than fine with me. Life in general was better, my school work had improved and it was almost time to take the exams. I stayed out of the way of Mum as much as I could as I never seemed able to please her. Whenever I was in her presence, she made it quite clear that I wasn’t part of her family as the others were, my brother Tom and my sisters, Ellen, Rosie and the youngest, Anne. They had always gone out on outings, without me. I would be left to do chores or when myNanlived with us, I would be told to stay and look after her. Most of the time, I was sad that I was never included, but not whenNancame to stay. Nana C was Mum’s mum; she was a tiny frail looking lady of whom I was very fond. She had been quite ill and in hospital and when she came to us, she was confined to her bed. But very soon, on the days that Mum and the family went out, we had a secret.

“Have they gone?” she would whisper, “Have they gone over the bridge yet?” I would tell her when I couldn’t see them anymore and she would giggle and get out of her bed and join me in the kitchen. We would sit together and she would tell me stories of her life, nice stories about the good times in the war when everyone was friendly and would sit around in air raid shelters and sing songs. We would make jam tarts or little cakes and have to eat them all before Mum and the others returned. Then Nan C would climb back into bed and no one ever knew our secret. This was a good time,an in between. The family behaved, most of the time, as though they were separate from me, that I wasn’t one of them. In my fear and pain, I suppose I became isolated from them in a way and being excluded was just how it was.

As time went on, I felt much better and the headaches lessened, so I continued to take the prescribed medication. But my respite was brief.

One afternoon when I arrived home from school, Uncle Bill was in the kitchen talking to mum. I froze. He was a close family friend and when I was little he was the only person who showed me affection. I felt safe and loved in his strong arms. I looked forward to his cuddles. I was very fond of him, until he started doing things that made me uncomfortable. These had progressed to evil things that I knew were wrong and caused me fear and pain. He terrified me. I used to enjoy the attention and the affection but that all changed.

Seeing him in the kitchen brought it all back, vividly as though it were yesterday.

 

“Let’s get into the back of the car for a cuddle” he had said after a lovely day out with him “That will end the day nicely” I had no reason to be afraid, I clambered over the front seat into the back and he held me. It felt good At least he loved me. But then he began to kiss me, roughly, hurting my face. He was touching me all over and then his hand was in between my legs. I knew this was wrong. “No, stop it, you’re hurting me” I cried out but he didn’t seem to hear me. He was a big man, a man who said he loved me. But now he was hurting me. I was pushing with all my might to get him off me but it made no difference. His big rough hands were gripping my skinny little body, his fingers poking about inside of my panties. I began to cry. “Stop please stop” I sobbed.After what seemed like forever, he stopped and moved away

He eventually climbed back into the front of the car, laughing and saying,

“No one will believe you if you tell them anyway, they will just say you’re lying” He took me home.

So my respite had been short, a few months, and now he was back. Seeing him in the kitchen, his dark hair falling onto his forehead brought all the fear back. He smiled at me, looking pleased with himself. My head started to pound and I felt cold and shivery. Then the words.

“Can I take Cassie out for a while?” The words came out of his mouth like a kind invitation to a favourite niece. But I knew different. ”We have a lot of catching up to do don’t we Cassie?” he continued. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. I knew what he meant; I didn’t want any of his ‘catching up’. I felt frozen to the spot.Just when I was coping, he comes back. ”Yes of course you can Bill” my mother answered, “You’ll like that won’t you girl” She looked at me, daring me to argue. I stared back at her. What kind of mother sends her child out with a monster? She knew what he had done. I had told her.

‘No No! I don’t want to go out with you, ever’I wanted to shout, but I didn’t. I was back feeling as I had always done. Scared of both of them. Mum and Uncle Bill. Two people who should have loved me.

The abuse had been escalating over the years before he had gone away. Now it was much worse. The thought of going out with this evil man brought so many horrors back into my head; it felt like it would burst open. Memories of a time when I was eleven, when the horrors had become unthinkable, came rushing back into my crowded head.

 

His breathing became heavier; he was fumbling between my legs prodding hurting me oblivious to my tears.

“Please, please take me home, I want to go home” I sobbed but he didn’t seem to hear me. And then the pain, pain like I have never had before, tearing me, awful awful pain. I couldn’t work out what was happening. Uncle Bill was squirming on top of me and groaning. Then suddenly I felt the awfulness of him inside of me. Now I couldn’t cry out. The pain was terrifying, the fear horrendous, rendering me unable to speak or cry. What had happened? What had he done to me? The pain was horrendous. I wanted to die. I had been raped.

 

So with no choice, and the blessing of Mum, I went out with Uncle Bill and the abuse continued. Although the headaches until that day, had gone, that day when he returned, they came back with a vengeance. No pill could ward off this fear and pain. I didn’t realise the impact that the pills were having I suppose coping with my life was hard enough. Nothing had been reported about the use of these ‘headache’ pills, at least I hadn’t seen anything, not in the newspapers and TV was limited in information. This was way before the days of the Internet. Oh how I wish I had had the foresight to ask the questions, to find out more. But the longer I was on the medication, the less inclined I was to ask. I was coping wasn’t I? Coping, in a home with no love. Using my pretend, during the horrendous abuse. I welcomed the numbness that sometimes enveloped me, during the many rapes and despicable sexual acts, that were either done to me or that I had to perform for this man who ‘loved me’. 

Make believe was something I would do, in my quiet moments, make believe that none of this evil that was happening to me, was really happening. That was enough. I used to make up a story, where I was reclaimed by the parents who had given me away at birth. Then my life was good. But sometimes, it seemed, I didn’t think at all. For some reason I had times, just after taking the pill, that I felt numb and almost heady, it was a lovely feeling. As this wore off, and the pain in my head began to return, I knew it would be okay again as soon as I took the tablet. The pain would go and I would be okay. Nobody told me of any danger or dependency on these ‘headache pills’. My youth was obviously my salvation. I was able to live a reasonably stable existence, at least to those who didn’t know me. I hadn’t realised at this point, that my judgement had already been impaired.

I became quite submissive. In the early days of mum picking on me, although this had always happened, I had been able to stand up for myself, or at least protest my innocence when accused of something I hadn’t done.

‘It wasn’t me’ I protested when the dolls house furniture had been left out and broken. ‘I didn’t do it’. I protested with tears in my eyes. I had been at dance school that morning. My sisters Ellen and Rosie had been playing with the dolls house, not me. ‘Liar’ mum screamed. ‘You’re always telling lies. I don’t know why I have to put up with this’.

But now, after all the years of emotional cruelty at her hands, I never answered her back. Just did her bidding. I thought that things just didn’t matter as much, because I was feeling better so she couldn’t hurt me as much. Each time I took a tablet, I felt more relaxed, more able to almost brush aside what was happening or being said to me. Although the abuse had become worse and more frequent, I had stopped protesting about going out with Bill, never tried to get away or stop his assaults. There was no point. I couldn’t win.

During the episodes of abuse, I often felt almost outside of myself, looking in. I taught myself to switch off. I don't mean I switched off to what was happening, so much so that I didn't make memories, No, that would have been wonderful. But I taught myself to mentally concentrate on something else. It didn't stop the horror or the pain, but it made it bearable.

The patterns on the wall are blue, a lovely colour. Must keep looking at that and thinking about nice. Must, must. I think that’s my favourite colour, Blue. Yes it is. The dress Claire’s mum bought me was blue and the flowers on her bedroom wall are blue. That’s a good place to be at Claire’s, I am always having fun. It is safe and warm and her Mum and Dad are kind to me. Yes Blue is good.

 After starting on the tablets, doing this was much easier. Things were easier to bear. If I felt anything, I just felt numb. Sometimes I felt nothing at all. My senses seemed to be wrapped in cotton wool. I just switched off. I wasn’t aware that the ‘headache pills’ were responsible for this, At that point, I don’t think I would have cared if I had known. The abuse had gone on since I was very young, since forever. This was the only way I could survive, keep quiet, try and think of something else and hope it would soon be over. Perhaps if I had had more control of my sense of judgement, I would have been able to fight him, but I’m not sure. Perhaps I would have felt strong enough to tell someone else, but I don’t think so. Maybe if I hadn’t been living in the fog that was Benzodiazepines, I would have asked the questions, should this be happening to me, is this normal? Without the effects of the medication, would I have been stronger, I don’t know. All I knew at that time was that, now, now that the headaches had stopped, I didn’t feel sad or scared. I felt calm and a bit numb. Nothing seemed real any more and that was okay with me. Sometimes, in the evenings, I would begin to feel like I did before I saw my GP, but then, when I had taken the pills he had given me, all was well again.

During the early years of the abuse, I was so afraid of the threats Uncle Bill made, afraid that he was right. That what he said, would happen to me. As a little girl his threats were terrifying and I had never lost that awful fear.  

 

His tone was menacing ‘You can’t tell anyone, you know. They won’t believe you. They might even take you away to a children’s home In children’s homes everyone would want to do things with you, they would all try to kiss and cuddle you’ I was petrified.

 

I knew he was right about telling anyone. After all, I had told mum and she hadn’t believed me so why would anyone else.

Child abuse was never heard of, at least I had never heard of it. At first I had thought it must be normal, that this is what happened to children. But I found out that it wasn’t, when I spent more time with my best friend Claire. Her dad, would never have done anything to hurt her. In the senior school, when I was about 11 or 12 and girls spoke about sex, I had realised, that what was happening to me was sex and the way the other girls spoke about it, I knew what was happening to me, was wrong. They never said these things happened to them, so why was it happening to me? thought and thought about this and came to one conclusion. It must be my fault. I then had the guilt to contend with as well as everything else. But I was too scared to tell.

 Soon the headaches had gone completely, thanks to the tablets, especially during the times that Bill was away. I hadn’t equated the two things. Before he went away, I was in constant fear of his turning up and insisting on taking me out. I was having flashbacks of the abuse and living in constant fear and apprehension. The pain in my head was sometimes unbearable. But the ‘headache pills’ had taken the pain away. I was still having to deal with the unkind actions and verbal abuse from Mum, but somehow I didn’t get so upset anymore. Since visiting my GP the cruel words were not hurting as much. I was almost able to push them aside. The numb I suppose. But I didn’t analyze the fact or put two and two together. I was just glad that I could cope with my life better than before.

 

‘Don’t think you’re going straight to your room girl’ mum screamed at me as I walked towards the stairs. ‘There is far too much to do here’ She was in the kitchen and preparing a meal for my sister Ellen and her new boyfriend. ‘I have lots of homework to do’ I tried to protest, without it sounding like a protest. ’Homework?’ mum said in contempt, ’that’s a waste of time, you’re stupid now and will still be stupid, no matter how much homework you do. Get here and help with tea!’

These words would have really hurt me before, but now it just went over my head. Help her I did.

Shortly after I was 15, my periods started and the sexual abuse changed. I had told Uncle Bill, that I was bleeding, hoping he would stop hurting me. How naive was I.

At first he was angry, good, he will stop now, he knows he can’t do these things to me now. But then my hopes were dashed

“Well, we’ll have to be happy playing games then” he said, as though he were cheering me up with this statement.

Happy! Who’s Happy? Where’s the stopping! I had thought it would stop.

The abuse continued.

 

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