Letter to my big brother

Brother,

When I was a little boy, you were my hero, my rock, my guiding light. When I scraped my knees and our mother couldn't be bothered to pay attention, you cleaned them for me. When my father beat me, you read me stories until I stopped crying. When he was screaming at my mother in the kitchen, you taught me to put my hands over my ears and sing. When my mother couldn't be bothered to give us something to eat, you showed me where she kept the bread. You beat up any bully who as much as looked at us. You walked us home from school. You helped me with my homework.

And you made me suck you penis.

You were a lost child. You mother, for reasons I will never understand, took you from your dad and delivered you into the hands of a monster. Your step father, my father, beat you. He used you for an ashtray. He raped you. I don't know how old you were when he started abusing you, but I remember the first time he raped you, because that was the day I saw you die before my six-year-old eyes. Still, you found it in yourself to try to protect me, the child of your abuser.

My support network

Over the past few weeks, my PTSD has been hitting me hard again. I've been struggling through nightmares and flashbacks that kept me awake at night and left me severely sleep deprived and depressed. The one thing that is different from previous cycles like this, is that I have solid support network in place. This has allowed me to stay focussed and keep on keeping on, as as the saying goes.

I thought I'd share what my support system looks like, for two reasons - first, to show my gratitude and give some credit to those who form part of it, and second - to give other survivors who haven't yet built up such a strong network some things to consider.

So, what does my network look like?

Love, loneliness and trust

Hello again to all my readers. I had a good vacation, but it's also good to be back. I wish you all the best for the new year!

I spent the week-and-a-bit that I was away with my head deliberately stuck in the sand. We cut ourselves off from radio, TV and newspapers, and even ignored out cellphones most of the time. I banned my history and any form of child-abuse as topics of conversation. We immersed ourselves in the beauty of nature and in each other. It was wonderful. I managed to go an entire week without one nightmare.

Of course, I knew all the time that I'd have to pull my head out of the sand and face up to reality again. PTSD will always catch up with you. Real life is full of triggers. But I learned something: I caught a glimpse of what life can be - a life that is centred around love and hope, not fear and pain. A life without loneliness.

I think I finally know what parenting is about

I had an epiphany today, about what the priorities of a parent should be.

For the last week or so, I've been on a quest to hunt down photos of myself from the period in which I was abused (age 4-16). My first port of call was my family members, but none of them have any photos from that period in their possession. I finally managed to ascertain that my old school still have copies of year books that should contain photos of me. I will go look at them tomorrow.

While I was dealing with this, an old friend asked me to send her a recent photo of my daughter. I started up my laptop last night, but I couldn't get past the long list of folders containing hundreds of photos of my daughter. The contrast was too much to bear. Sitting there, staring at the screen with tears running down my face, I saw the photos as a metaphor for a parent's love.

No one ever cared enough to want to preserve memories of my childhood.

No one ever loved me like I love my daughter.