Warning to all – this contains some relatively heavy subject matter, including abuse. Consider this a tone setter or a trigger warning for anyone who doesn’t wish to read on.
When I was a kid, I skipped school a lot. It wasn’t that I hated school itself; I loved to learn, I loved to understand things, and I liked the structure that school gave me. I was wholly unexceptional in my belief that I was truly exceptional, but I always felt that there was something indescribable that was setting me apart from my peers.
I played Rugby, and I was alright at it. I had the strength, the speed, the grit, but not the interest or passion for the game I was playing; give me a ball and point was the very best performance I could offer before it was finally time to return home and forget sports existed. It’s hard to place exactly when I started skipping school, and even harder to pin down exactly why. The underlying reasons are clear enough, and will be to you too by the end of this article, but the event that made me do it for the very first time are beyond me. I had a strict regimen for skipping school; I needed the structure. A train from Moira, that was step one. Business as usual, bought my ticket and chatted to the other fellas in the carriage.
“Right, I’ve been seen getting on and being on the train. All good.” I’d think to myself, a wry and cringe-worthy grin creeping across my face.
Step one came very naturally to me, but the crucial point was when we hit the now defunct Great Victoria Street. The crowds emptied from the train onto the platform, and in that moment I became a ghost. That is, a ghost in a conspicuous school uniform with a very large schoolbag and an even larger kitbag. In my mind’s eye, however, I was invisible; I ducked and dove through the crowds, weaving my way across the platform and slipping silently (save for the rustling and hassle of my bags) and unseen (except by all those around me) onto train number two; the return trip to Lisburn.
Waiting for this train to depart was the most nerve shattering part of the plan; I’d sit myself right at the front so I could look down the whole platform, affording myself the widest possible window to react to the Gestapo AKA any of the underpaid and overworked school staff who for whatever reason may have decided to check the platform for anyone attempting to flee. When I heard the doors lock and the train departed, I was free; a weight shifted from me immediately and we entered Step 3.
Step 3, the penultimate Step of my grand plan to not bother with school for a day, involved a round trip to Easons, a sweet shop, and the Bow Street Mall food court. With my magazine or book, I’d tuck myself into the furthest and most isolated corner of the hall and enjoy a lunch to myself. It was in the corner of that food court that I spent countless days, and its difficult not to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. The notion that I was fleeing something, on the run, or that the illustrious City of Life was some sort of neutral zone where I could never be found-that feeling, or rather the evasion of it-was the driving force behind my want to be alone. At my very core, I wanted to dwell between the cracks for a little bit.
It’s here that my little jaunt in Greater Antrim’s second city must come to a close, for now. After all, I’ve hardly taken to writing in order to meticulously detail my truancy. We can brush gently with some of those underlying reasons, but there’s one I’ll get out of the way first. Those of you who know me well likely anticipate this heavy subject matter.
I speak, of course, about the time I got my head kicked in over a box of popcorn chicken in a KFC.
In truth, this once “semi-serious” event is now a favourite of mine to tell. If any of you find the article in the news about it, enjoy yourselves. The long and short of it is that I, in my silver tongued wisdom, managed to turn an awkward interaction with a drunk fella into a fight between me and around seven other much older men. I would like to say that I put up a fight, that I went down kicking and took a few of them with me-but in truth I hit the deck almost instantly and was set upon as my popcorn chicken cascaded across the floor.
Injury and anxiety kept me off school for a bit, and my attendance never really recovered. But was that really it? Was that why I felt so apart from everyone? Why I had this burning desire to find time in the day where I felt like nobody was watching me? Well, no.
My time in school wasn’t bad; on the social pecking order I was far from the bottom, but nowhere near the top. Something always pushed me to find room for myself in any crowd; I’d ally myself to whoever would listen, and in doing so often isolate myself completely. I didn’t really know how to interact with people “normally” and spent hours trying to understand every individual person’s sense of humour and manner of speaking so I could better master conversation with them. But there was, of course, something else that happened.
During one act of truancy like any other, I found myself walking far from my usual haunts. Slan to GAME, where I’d look at video games I couldn’t afford. Au revoir to CEX, where I’d look at DVDs that really shouldn’t have been at eye level for a teenage boy. Auf Wiedersehen to Bow Street Mall, and to the endless scores of shops wholly unaware of the economic oblivion that awaited them within the decade. On this particular day, I found myself walking up the hill to the fortress of Lisburn Police Station. I shuffled into the strange little civilian waiting room, walked up to an officer who was sitting behind a tiny little glass window, and I leaned in to say:
“What do I do if I want to report something bad that happened to me a long time ago?”
She responded matter-of-factly, as I’m sure she’s trained to do. She started into what was likely a well rehearsed explanation of protocol and procedure before I leaned in to speak again:
“It was rape. But like, not super serious I guess? I don’t know.”
I suddenly became aware that she was writing something, and without looking up she responded with something about how it certainly sounded serious. The uniform I was wearing did no favours to my attempt to keep it all eezy-breezy, with the other people in the waiting room likely furious that whatever they were in for was probably going to be knocked onto the back burner. My memory of exactly what followed is hazy, but I do distinctively remember leaving without any feeling of satisfaction or change. In reality, a series of events had begun behind the scenes which would eventually result in a man named William Wright being brought before the courts and pleading guilty for a string of abuse charges. This was going to change my life forever-but as far as I was concerned, I’d never hear of it again. Someone, somewhere, would take a note of it and keep an eye on Mr Wright, wherever he was. Job done.
That’s the thing about abuse. With time, it warps like wood; it keeps its broad shape, its feeling, but it twists and bubbles and gnarls into an incomprehensible tumour. You can’t cut it out, you can’t burn it away, you can only turn it over in your hands to try and get a better look at it. It’s heavier on one end, it looks prettier on one side. It sulks in your palms, heavy and sodden, twisted and angular, encumbering you and making it difficult to hold on to anything else.
Lots of survivors say that they carry their abuse with them; their trauma follows them around, but they have learned to navigate the world without it negatively impacting them. Others have tried to be rid of it, tried to hack and saw at themselves to tear out the pulsating reminder of what happened-they mutilate themselves to try and dig from the pulp of their person a glimpse of who they were before the abuse, or who they might have been without it.
At the best of times, it is akin to an uncomfortable burden in my pocket; it pokes into my skin with every movement I make, but most people don’t even know that it’s there. Sometimes, if I position myself just right and surround myself with distractions, I can forget it’s there. Then, like clockwork, there’s a spark. It unfurls itself from the dark recesses of my body and wraps itself around me, a barbed monstrosity that tears at my limbs and forces its way into my mouth.
Every breath is short and stifled, my eyes are darting around for any kind of sign that it won’t always feel like this. Lips burned shut, hands trembling, I am silently consumed. The instant passes, the flame is contained. The terror subsides, but slowly-like a drip from a tap which clings to the metal for what feels like eons before plunging into the basin below to be scattered into a thousand pieces.
From the moment that the words I awkwardly mumbled through that little glass window made their way up the chain and then back down into the living room of my family, my life never really felt the same. In a lot of ways, I’m “over” it. The debilitating consequences solved, healthy and sustainable procedures and rituals in place to regulate the ones which remain. My life has moved on, and so has everyone else’s. I’ve had many new, exciting failings which are wholly independent of what happened to me-a bizarre thing to be happy about, but there was joy to be found in taking responsibility for something I messed up rather than sadly scoring another point to Noncechester United.
Right, you must be thinking, what in the name of Baptist Joseph and Presbyterian Mary is an article like this doing being posted on Tanistry. I came here to read about the IRA, about Vikings, about what name you’re calling DUP voters-not about all this personal guff. In a sense, you’re right. But in a much more real sense, you’re wrong.
Tanistry has taken many forms over the years and it’s only really in the past while that I’ve come to realise that it’s as much a blog about Irish history and its relation to society as it is an attempt by my dear old self to rediscover that love of learning and knowledge that I once had. After all, as I’ve told many a podcast or interview, the main reason I started the blog was because I felt I had nobody to talk to about this newfound interest I had. Talking about this aspect of my life so publicly and in depth is something I’ve always been very afraid of, but equally eager to try.
I’ll mercifully bring this article to a close soon. What was the point of it? Well, the abuse I went through isn’t something I’ve ever really tried to write about in any “serious” way. I’ve thrown together a few pieces. I’ve quietly hinted at it in messages of support or solidarity to others. But this is, I suppose, the first time I’ve tried really putting pen to paper (fingers to keyboard and then onto a dubiously obtained copy of Microsoft Word) to try and actually describe my relationship with it. I obsessed, for most of my 20s, with this idea of getting over it.
Multiple relationships fell through because of problems rooted in it-specifically, in my sheer inability to take serious responsibility for what I was or wasn’t capable of and addressing it at the root rather than seeking a distraction. The
If my understanding of the legal system is correct (and despite my regular reference to a legal team, it probably could use some work) I believe Mr Wright will be released in the foreseeable. The bloated auld monster had a very successful career as a monstrous child abuser long after me; perhaps I might have the dark badge of being one of his first, but he was actually already in jail when I skipped school and walked up to the police station that fateful day. Of course, the mature thing here would be to say that there’s no point ruminating over him. In a truly just world, he’d have received help for whatever disorder it is that caused him to carry out such terrible acts. He’d have been identified early on by well developed health services. Maybe he’s received that support since, and is truly remorseful. Maybe he’s haunted by what he did. Maybe he’ll end up a changed man, trying to do some good in the world. Or maybe he’ll finally top himself following decades of being passed around prison like the badges he used to dole out at Boyscouts. Sure look.
I suppose I’m known for two things; my blog and my mouth. That is to say, I do alot of posting and a lot of talking. The language I use can be colourful, particularly for those I loathe. My attitude toward algorithims is dismissive and I have likely undermined my own success at every opportunity for the sake of one last quick, spiteful dig at those working to create a world in which I and many others wouldn’t have survived. I’ve long wondered if the deep lack of catharsis over this entire aspect of my life has fed into my need for confrontation; I feel a need to lash out, to have dealt some sort of damage to someone bad. In the end, I usually end up in the same place. Perhaps writing this is the last thing I’ll ever need to say on the matter.
To conclude this morbid and deeply selfish post, I’ll finish my story from the start. Step 4 of truancy; the thing that brings it all together. When the time came, I’d start making my way home-either timing it to line up with being collected at Moira, or heading directly home and blaming some sort of early day at school to explain my appearance. There were always a few hours to kill, so I’d wander the streets of Lisburn.
I’d look in shops I’d never enter, and glance upwards at windows that concealed places I’d never lay eyes on. I’d wonder about the lives of the people I saw; what has all of you bustling around Lisburn at this time of day? Shouldn’t you be somewhere else? This particular part of my day is something I still do now. I’ll find a moment where time seems to freeze; these strange places and periods between the cracks where it’s as though I’ve unlocked some secret little world to retreat into.
Walking home from a friend’s house or from work, I’ll see a light on in someone’s bedroom. I’ll stop for a second, wondering what life is like on the other side of the window. Is there terror in that room? Is there love? What if it were me, warm and safe in my bedroom? The wind catches the back of my neck. I close my eyes. I’m eight years old. I like building blocks, and seeing how tall he can stack them. I like wizards and knights. I love to play. Nothing bad has ever happened to me. The wind rolls over me, bidding farewell as it waltzes along the kerb. I’m in my 20s again. The light in the window is off now. It’s time to go home.