Originally published in 2018

Late morning, Tuesday, 18th September 2018, I walked into a police station to give video evidence against a member of staff who sexually abused me during my time in care. The Crown prosecution will ultimately decide if there’s enough evidence to move forward with the case; that’s out of my hands.

 I went to the police station because I’d reached a point in my life where continued non-action on my part felt overpowering (rightly or wrongly), like complicity or worse.

 The memory of the assault has been part of my daily existence since it occurred during my early teens. My vivid recollection of the assault has never once dimmed. These unpleasant memories have constantly eaten away at my confidence and sense of self. They have often caused me to scream silently, fearfully, and angrily without moving a limb or allowing a flicker of emotion to pass over my face. During intimate moments, when loved ones assumed I was happy and content,  for their sake and mine, I tried my best to appear so.

 What causes someone who fights this daily battle to say, “Enough, I have the right to be loved? I have the right to be the person I was born to be before you chose to touch me with your hateful, selfish imprimatur”?

 I realised, belatedly, this year that my long silence was only hurting myself and those around me. By keeping my truths silent, I had effectively become the unwitting keeper of my abuser’s secret and his protector.

 I had and have no interest in any form of vengeance and often wondered what the point of seeking justice was. Many years had passed since the incident. I’d tried to move on and often told myself I had. Nor was I completely sold on the prison system as an effective form of rehabilitation.  My abuser was substantially older than myself and has to be an old man by now, possibly even a grandfather. How would sending an elderly man to prison and causing him to spend much of his last years walking around a concrete box like a tired, arthritic mouse do any good? 

 What would constitute justice for him?  For myself?

 I can’t claim to have the right answer to these questions.

 However, I chose, after many, many years, to respond with the only answer that gives me a chance at resolution and peace. I did this in the full knowledge that my death or mental incontinence may well have placed my abuser beyond the reach of the law. What will be, will be.

 It was way past time to end the invisible prison sentence my abuser happily handed down on me. It cannot be right that he has been able to cheerfully walk around in the world while I’ve spent so much time banging my head against the hard walls of an unforgiving solitary cell he helped build within my brain.

 I want to be free.  So, into the police station I went. I believe I did the right thing.

 Samuel Johnson samjhere@icloud.com