Face at the Window (Paperback)

Before writing this book only three people knew my story, two psychologists and a counsellor. Even my own brothers and sister don't know everything, as we have never spoken about it. Not one of them ever asked me about my life while living in children's homes, or what took place between our parents and me when they were not around. Friends that I have known for twenty and thirty something years have no idea at all about my past, and they never will, therefore, all names in this story including my own have been changed. Unfortunately there is a stigma about people who have been abused, statistics state that most of us grow up to be abusers because violence breeds violence, or we turn to prostitution, drugs, alcohol and have criminal records, and just generally a bad lot. I am one hundred percent sure that I am speaking for many other people as well as myself when I say we don't all turn out like that. Being on the receiving end of many years of violence and knowing how it feels gave me no desire whatsoever to be violent towards someone else. I can also say in all honesty that I don't have a violent bone in my body. Maybe in a strange sort of way I have been lucky because during my time spent in care, most of the people that worked there did show me affection, which I responded to, by receiving it and giving it back. I knew the difference between right and wrong, and I knew that the way my parents treated me was so wrong, and there was nothing at all in me that made me want to follow their example. My life has been very difficult and the only person that I have ever punished is myself. I think that I have also been very lucky regarding the children's homes I have lived in (apart from the last one) because I never came across any of the horror stories that we hear about on the news nowadays regarding staff physically and sexually abusing the children. I loved my time in the homes and loved most of the people that looked after us. Although I now know that, some of the things were not right such as when Mr Bedford made a grave mistake the day he left me in my parent's kitchen at that dreadful Christmas time, and the wound that my head received needed investigating. However, I have never allowed myself to dwell on that because it will tarnish the only happy childhood memories that I have and I do not want to take that away from myself. I do feel eternally grateful to the people in the homes, and to anyone else that helped me or showed me any kindness and affection. As for the Social Services, they are another book (one that I won't bother to write).