My dad has gone back nto a very deep depression, this time a frightening one. He broke the hoover by smashing it against god knows what. The banging rocked the walls for several moments before he stormed out of the house and into the shed where he barked at my mum when she dared to ask what the matter was. Since I last wrote about this he had been a little better briefly, but that was generally only because Y was here last weekend and that's the only time he really covers it up. He's not bothering now. I've had to watch that awful cloud fall over my mum again.
I have things of my own to fight at the moment. Things I've been avoiding talking about but I know I'll have to sooner or later because trying to live this summer without my outlet here just isn't possible. As soon as I get into May, the end of June just doesn't seem all that far away. I cling to dates, it's the very worst habit I have. I can pinpoint the exact date of any single incident that's ever happened to me. My brain is like a dump for non-vital information like that. Always has been.
I find myself affected by what happened on whatever day, however many years ago. When that time comes around, I can't escape it as much as I try. It will be five years to the day, come 2nd July this year. A whole part of me was stolen that day. A whole part of who I was. I don't think I'll ever get that back.
I went through all my folders over the weekend, throwing away any rubbish and smiling or crying over the memories of the rest. The dates at the top of magazine pages brought me down. July 1998. Over and over I saw that date on Bugs articles, internet printouts and newspapers. I sometimes think that if it weren't for the internet i'd have become a complete recluse that summer. The only reason I had for leaving the house was to attend my bookings at the library. The Bugs message board that was (long deceased, R.I.P. Insidetheweb) kept me going.
I remember how it felt, having to psyche myself up to leave the house, terrified that any man should glance at me. It was summer and hot, but I was too afraid to wear any clothes that would show flesh. A building site that I was forced to pass on the way to the library was littered with the type of workers who lived up to the stereotype, whistling and yelling at the females who passed by, me included. I shook like a jelly and ran, trying to cover my face however I could. With every comment yelled to me I felt as dirty as I did when his filthy hands touched me. Every single time brought it back.
So I would race through the minefield of men and duck into the library where I finally felt safe. Sitting in the dark, internet corner was fine by me. No one bothered me there, at least not until my half-hour was up and they cleared their throat, a little too shy to tell me to piss off. Then I'd have to face the sunlight again, but for those 30 minutes - well, it was the one time I could escape the horrors going round in my head.
Sometimes I'm not sure I've ever come any further than that. Sometimes when I'm laying in bed and his face flashes into my thoughts unexpectedly I still feel like that terrified girl, hiding her face from the world just in case someone might look. The fears I have about human nature as a whole still plague me. The ability to cause such pain, to have such a lack of conscience, and to cheat on people they are supposed to love makes me doubt people, and I hate doing that. i wish that i could trust unconditionally the way I used to, but I can't.
I still wonder if I did the right thing by keeping quiet. I'll never stop wondering if he's done the same thing to anyone since. Or before. At the very least, I feel sure that he must have cheated on her. If he was willing to attempt to rape her own cousin then he surely has no morals about infidelity.
I wait for the phone call that I'm sure we'll get one day. That they've split up. That she caught him in bed with someone. That he's in prison, charged with rape. Sometimes I try to psyche myself up for it, to prepare myself for reacting when it arrives so that I don't give anything away. I try to work out how to excuse myself quickly from the room before I cry or scream or self-destruct. Deep down I know it's pointless. I know that if and when it happens I'll have no control over what I do. My reaction will be instinct, not reason. That scares me.
Five years have passed and yet it haunts me like it was yesterday.
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