When my children first started disclosing, it began as smatterings of words and bizarre statements. Enough, but not enough to make sense of what they were saying. Certainly enough to know something was wrong.

As the case escalated rapidly with social work and police involvement, I was shocked to realise that what they told me just didn’t count - that without testimony during a police interview, in controlled conditions, there would never be a criminal case against him. Even in my naiveté, I knew that my young girls were unlikely to retell what they told me - particularly as it was largely nonsensical - but in a police station, with people they had only just met, the odds were not good.

I was green.

I didn’t know what the process was — why would I — and from the moment I was thrust into the world of being a MOSAC (mother of sexually abused children), I was always ten steps behind what was happening to us.

If I hadn’t been in shock, I would have gone into work mode, researched, planned, and strategised, but I was in a constant state of delirium, and trying to function and do the basics was challenge enough, particularly as I wasn’t sleeping or eating (at one point, I hit under 8 stone, so started to force-feed myself Mars bars).

When I look back at this time, it is blurry, hazy, and hard to recall with the clarity I had in the first few days. I was in shock. Unbeknown to me, shock isn’t a transient thing; it can last weeks and months, and I think this is why the first six to eight months were such a blur. I wasn’t even drinking much at that point, surviving on about four hours’ sleep a night, as Lola was in bed next to me, drawing pictures to go into her ‘book’ of what happened.

Over the last few weeks, as my work life has become balanced, I have started to feel more human, albeit stressed at the prospect of unemployment. But in the last couple of days as my joie du vie has returned so have pangs of loss and grief.

I always say this won’t define us, and it’s true. But then I realise I am still very far away from normal, well not the normal that surrounds me. Sometimes I can’t help but compare to friends, and the differences feel very stark; what we have lost hits me and it seems so much I can’t quite take it in.

When trauma, shocking events, and the calamity of CPTSD hit, it is easy to forget grief. Grief is somehow more stoic, subconscious, and with you by stealth. But it is very much present and important to acknowledge and listen to.

After discovering that the systems meant to protect my children were failing us, I had no choice but to take matters into my own hands and apply to family court. What follows is the story of that first hearing - what I knew, what I didn’t, and how it felt to finally be believed

What happened after my children reported child abuse was nothing more than a Netflix psychological drama - without the hot detective to fall in love with me.

On that first day, when those first disclosures were shared with me, those first signs and words, I called the NSPCC. 

What do you do when you face emotional abusers in your workplace?

How do you react when you can see a manager or colleague in the same patterns as your domestic abuser (or 2)?

I feel pleased I can spot it, almost laugh at the familial patterns and have strength in the knowledge, but seeing the trite attempts to make me feel stupid, triangulate as a power play with colleagues and turn on the charm when cold eyes are the norm, have an effect.

How do you keep the energy and motivation? I have visions of being all Lorelai Gilmore — quick-witted, spritely — but it’s hard to maintain.

I feel bone tired again. It doesn’t take long after the school holidays or a long Easter weekend. A week ago, I felt refreshed and rejuvenated. This week, I’ve been dealing with a multitude of things, and even my ADHD brain is struggling to prioritise what bit of life admin (read: school complaint) I need to do next.

CPTSD is cruel, debilitating, life changing and exhausting. It is also incredibly expensive. Particularly when all three of us had/have it.

For me, aside from the years of excess red wine and Marlboro, which I’ve now thankfully been able to escape from, I’ve only been able to recover from PTSD through an amalgam of many elements.

The most surprising thing — something I couldn’t have even fathomed — was that when it all happened, my relationship with my children shifted.

There were, of course, my own feelings: shock, anger, disgust — a lot of that.
And then guilt. The mother-guilt. How did I let this happen?

I told my dad to get me some Marlboro. I was shaking uncontrollably, even though it was a warm summer day. My body was ice-cold. Numb.

I knew Liam had mental health issues. But not this.

I’ve just been out for a dog walk… and am now covered in bird shit, it is supposed to be lucky, but all over my shirt, my hair although thankfully my baseball hat was saved. It just really sums up the week, I think.

One of the hardest challenges I’ve had to face is this: how do you parent when your child’s been abused? How do you know when to give consequences? How do you know when they might be using their trauma to their advantage in classic teen fashion?

A senior social worker actually said that to me.

He said that to me as I was questioning if I should let their father see them whilst the disclosures were still ambiguous.

Over the first few months of the girls disclosures I felt like I was living in 'Sleeping with the Enemy'. The girls told me more and more, they draw pictures, they acted out what he did and every time I would report new developments I was told to stop. I was told I was emotionally abusing the children

Summer 2023. Since Court reopened, Lola who is by now 13 is struggling to process the abuse she suffered. She started hanging around with the wrong crowd and I would be getting weekly calls from the School regarding her 'choices'.