When you become social pariahs: the aftermath of sexual abuse
At the beginning, I told no one - aside from a handful of friends. I couldn’t. I didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t know if it would go against me with social services, who had warned me that the local community could become violent towards him if they found out.
On the school run, people must have wondered why I was suddenly there instead of at my office desk. I was there in body but not in mind. I distinctly recall my pallor, a chain-smoker’s pursed mouth, and cobbled-together outfits, as my Zara and COS clothes were relegated to the back of the wardrobe.
I had an amazing support group of friends who bought me food, came round in the dark evenings to share a glass of wine, and offered me an escape - hearing about their lives was far more preferable than thinking about my own. I am forever grateful to those friends who had my back, still have my back, and have never wavered.
My family seemed to fall into two camps: those who felt every breath of the pain I did and almost couldn’t bear to be near us - but they were - and the others, who seemed to disassociate, not wanting to believe it was true. Their absence was felt deeply.
Amidst my stalwart supporters, there were also friends who couldn’t reconcile the truth and distanced themselves - not realising that the pain of losing them was like sandpaper on an open, gaping wound.
People don’t want to come near grief, especially grief that “has no right” to exist.
One of the hardest things to comprehend has been the reaction from the parents of my children’s friends. Both girls, at around eight or nine - which makes me think it was part of a developmental stage or the grieving process — wanted to tell their friends. This was problematic. I didn’t want to tell them not to talk about it; I didn’t want them to feel ashamed or silenced. And I was under strict instructions from social workers not to control their narrative.
With my eldest, it was easier. Her friends were part of my friendship group. While their parents weren’t happy with her “stories,” they understood - and her narrative was sometimes so far-fetched that it didn’t make much sense to her peers. I would still inform the school each time, so they could monitor class conversations and shut them down if needed.
But with my youngest, whose friends’ parents I hadn’t built a strong enough relationship with (she started school as this all unfolded), things were different. She faced ostracism - even when I tried to impose damage limitation by messaging parents as soon as I knew what she had said, asking them to call me if they had questions.
Still, they told their children not to play with her. They told them to avoid her.
This child - who had been through trauma, who was still being forced to see her abuser through court-ordered contact, who needed the sanctity of school and friendship more than ever - was being punished again. It was heartbreaking. I confronted those parents. I challenged their behaviour. I asked why she was being punished further. One of them told me her daughter had been scared — and I understood that — but I couldn’t understand why they hadn’t spoken to me, or tried to find a solution.
It took me asking one of the parents to meet for coffee and explaining the impact this was having on my daughter for things to finally change.
Shortly after, my eldest fell out with one of her confidantes just as she started secondary school. Of course, that “friend” told the rest of the year that my daughter had been “sexually abused by her father.”
And what’s been said can’t be unsaid. Since then, my eldest has received Snapchat threats - “I’m going to rape you like your father did.” My youngest has been blackmailed by ex-friends. It lives with them. It lives with us.
I’ve often thought about moving away, starting afresh. But where would we be without our network — the people who care? It might have been diminished, but it’s still everything.
