Originally published in 2018.

Forty years ago, I was sexually abused by a man, a social worker, who I’d known from my days in Care.

Last week I returned to the street, the building, where the unpleasantness occurred.

I haven’t been back to that building since the incident occurred. Nor have I seen the man again.

I knew this man, this social worker, hose care I had been entrusted to well.l. It’s fair to say I’d pretty much idealised him. He was funny, witty, talkative -everything my father wasn’t. And I trusted him.

He’d thrown a party at his apartment. I’d stayed over as I had many times. I went to bed and fell asleep. I woke up to find myself in a pretty unpleasant situation.

Unbelievably, my first thought was that if I acknowledged what was happening, there would be no going back from the truth of what was happening. He would lose his job. Our relationship would be over. It’s hard to accept this, but my first thoughts were of how to protect this man from the consequences of his own behaviour.

I am told this means I had been groomed.

Groomed. That’s an interesting word.

A big concept for me to get my head around. It sounds very victimee. Makes me question my own level of awareness. Causes me to reevaluate my own words and memories. To look at myself and others anew. And question the very reality I thought I was living in. I’ll return to this subject another time.

I recorded my trip back to the building on my phone; it’s the modern way.

Here’s a link to the video. https://youtu.be/RplD1XeCw8E

I’m going to rest up and sleep now.

Samuel Johnson

samjhere@icloud.com