1983 - 1985

In my last year of primary school I was picked to star in the end of term play. I was overjoyed. Drama was one of my strong points - I loved to escape and be another person, living another life.

The night before the performance, I was so excited - I wet the bed.

I had had a bed wetting problem for a few years. Dad would 'help me' by waking me up in the small hours, pushing me into the toilet and forcing me to go. As much as I hated this, I preferred it to actually wetting the bed and getting another beating.

In a desperate attempt to conceal my wet sheets and pajamas, I put them on the hot water tank in the airing cupboard, hoping they would dry before mum woke up.

I lay back down in bed reading, trying to keep awake.

It didnt work, I woke to find my dad pulling me out of bed shouting.

But he didn't hit me. I guessed it was due to the fact that I couldn't very well go up on stage with a black eye.

I walked to school, hoping he had changed and looked forward to seeing my parents faces after my performance later that evening.

Half way through the day, my drama teacher took to me one side. He told me that my dad had phoned the headmaster and advised him to take me out of the play. The reason - I had wet my bed and this was as good a punishment as any.

Of course, the headmaster refused and my dad said him and his wife would not be attending.

I cried with the shame and the realisation that the one chance I had to prove myself to my dad was gone.

I don't remember anything about the performance that night or even what the play was, all I remember was seeing my classmates being taken home by their parents, while I started the long walk home on my own.

With my primary school days behind me I was all set to join the big school. Problem was neither me or my parents knew where I would be going.

I was hoping to go to Hillcrest as that's where Vicky would be going, but Dad wanted me to go to an all boys school. I hated the idea and prayed that the school would burn down.

As luck would have it, a letter arrived confirming I would indeed be going to Hillcrest. I was elated, although nervous about starting secondary school.

Me and Vicky didn't see as much of each other as I would have liked at the new school and it forced to me to make new friends.

I had developed a unique sense of humour and this helped making friends easy.

My home life was worse than ever. I secluded myself from the rest of the family and shut myself away in my bedroom, listening to pop records, playing with toys and keeping a diary.

I knew writing my thoughts in a diary was risky with dad around, if he found it and read that I had documented the punishment he dealt, my life wouldn't be worth living. But I had hidden it somewhere I thought no one would find.

During one saturday, my sister had managed to lure me out, after a few hours of each other we soon started arguing and a fight broke out. She ran home, crying to mum and dad.

I took as long as I could to get home, I didn't know what kind of a mood dad was in.

He opened the door and sent me to my room straight away.

As I sat on my bed I knew what was coming. Sometimes I would be waiting for half an hour, this time he kept me waiting for over an hour while he stewed downstairs.

As always I was nervous and didn't know what to do with myself, so to keep myself from going mad thinking about what was to come, I picked up a book and pretended to read. It was a football annual dad gave me, I had never read it up til then. I thought that if dad saw me reading it he wouldn't punish me. I thought about escaping out the bedroom window or holding my breath until my heart stopped beating.

The sound of him slowly walking up the stairs would make my legs feel like jelly and give me a feeling of such utter despair.

He entered my room and shut the door and began the now familiar performance.

It would start with him talking to me. I would be too frightened to look at him, not wanting any reaction of mine to spark him into using his fists.

He would yell at me to look at him while he spoke, to show him the respect he deserved.

I would look and would be shouted at for looking scared.

He would put his point across and then go on to tell me I was a loser, I was an unplanned pregnancy, that I was the cause of all him and mums problems, that I would amount to nothing.

Then he would change track and crack a few jokes, I would let myself laugh, hoping in vain he would warm to me, but it was all part of the game.

I would only have to look away for a second and he would be upon me "Didn't I tell you to look at me when I speak to you" he would shout.

The book I was holding as a shield would be ripped from my hands and thrown across the room.

This particular beating is remembered above all the others.

He pulled me to my feet and thumped me in the face, my cheek bone felt like it had exploded, but I didn't show any hurt or surprise.

He pushed me back down on the bed bearing down on me with his weight. I was rigid, on my back as his face pressed into mine. He shouted words that blended into noise as his hands found their way around my neck.

The look on his face was one of pure hatred. His eyes bulged and my face would be showered in spit as he continued shouting.

His grasp became tighter and I could feel my chest burning, my eyes streaming and my face getting hot. I struggled to breathe and stay focused, all the while staring up at my father as he continued to strangle me.

Suddenly with a shocked look on his face he stopped and stood up.

I could just about hear him - I think I was on the verge of passing out.

He was shouting at me to get up, but I couldn't. My body was weak and at this point I wanted to give up.

He pulled me to my feet and thumped me. In my stomach, on my face. I felt numb all over, although I could feel my insides ache and the skin on my face split, I didn't actually feel any pain.

While he was laying into me, an image popped into my head. I saw myself as a punch bag.

After what seemed like hours he stormed downstairs.

I heard him and mum shouting and my brother and sister being shut in the kitchen.

I stood where I was, in a daze when I heard him calling me.

Somehow I made it downstairs, it was time for round two.

When mum saw me she let out a cry, I so desperately wanted a hug and let all the tears out that I needed to weep.

She knew better and went into the kitchen to comfort her other two children. It was better this way, I didn't want dad to start on her.

Round two consisted of dad telling me how much he loved me. As he hugged me he told me how sorry he was I had made him do what he had done, how it had hurt him more than it had hurt me.

He looked at me and told me he couldn't bear to see me in the state I was in and he was leaving.

He slammed the door behind him. I knew he would be back.

Mum comforted me and wiped the blood and tears from my face. My sister looked shocked when she saw me, thankfully my brother was too young to fully understand what had happened.

I wanted to stay with mum, but didn't want to be downstairs when dad came back, so I took myself up to bed.

Looking in the bathroom mirror I was almost sick at the sight of myself. Sick to see my swollen nose and cheekbone, my split lip and my black eyes, sick to see the trail my tears had made and sick to see the pathetic loser that stared back at me.

As I crept into bed I fell asleep hoping dad would never return, but heard the sound of his key in the front door.

I made myself a promise.

I knew I could make my dad like me