A troubled childhood. Part 4

The continuing autobiography of a remarkable man. In this episode, the abuse continues, but now it is committed by women rather than a man.

Part 4

I don't know what psychologists would say about a young child's understanding of sex and sexuality, of who and what you are as an individual, but at around this time of being six or six-and-a-half, all the girls in the children's home would get new dresses. Because the majority were girls they would get lots of clothes donated and, being a boy, there wasn't much donated that I could have. One day another boy came to the children's home. I'll always remember him, I think his name was Johnny (I'm dreadful with names). He was a nice chap, but smaller than me so I could sort him out if I had to. Johnny and I were a bit confused about this business with the clothes, and were actually a bit resentful.

The girls would always get new clothes and we would get horrible ones. Not only that, but they got a choice of food and the games they wanted to play. We had an old radiogram in the home, a huge machine that lit up at the front and on which you could play records. The girls, some of whom were as old as eleven or twelve, got to choose which records were played on it.

So Johnny and I realised that something was different and we said to our house-aunties that if being a girl meant that you got all the best things in life, then we wanted to be girls as well. And I can remember with stunning clarity what happened next. The reader may not accept this, and may not choose to believe it, but I swear to you it is the truth. Johnny had the bed next to me, he didn't like the football teacher either, but we both found a new pet - a chicken of all things, but I digress. Every night before you went to bed you had to fold your clothes up very, very neatly and put them in your locker. The day after our plea to be allowed to be girls, when we woke up and went to get our clothes out there were none of our clothes there, just a vest, a pair of knickers and a girl's dress apiece. I can remember being so happy, I was being allowed to be a girl! I was going to be the same as the others. Johnny and I got dressed, put our dresses on, rushed downstairs to breakfast and first of all there was silence, then there was the first titter and snigger. I couldn't understand, why had they allowed us to become part of the group and be as them, and now they were laughing? What did they find so funny? What was wrong? Very quickly we realised something was wrong - very quickly realised! So Johnny and I said we wanted our clothes back and the sisters and the aunties said that you wanted to be girls so you can be girls, see if you are capable.

Then they took us to school, and to this day I do not understand how or why the teachers at that school allowed what happened to happen. I cannot in my soul of searching and asking and trying to rationalise some of the horrendous things that have happened in my life, understand it at all. So we went to school and we were in school all day in dresses, dressed as girls. I never had to fight so much, so hard, so often. I was tired, I was hurt, we had our dresses pulled about, we were thrown down on the ground, we had boys doing all sorts of things to us. We had the girls shouting at us, we were chased and mercilessly persecuted throughout that day. I fought, I fought, and I fought until I had no strength left to fight. Not one teacher came to our assistance. This went on for a week, five days of fighting, of abuse; whether they were trying some perverted kind of aversion therapy I have got no idea, but they were horrendous days. The trauma of those days lives on. It is unfinished business, it is something that I have yet to resolve to this day.

Thinking about it now, on reflection, meant that I could deal with it. Who is kidding whom? Being dressed in woman's clothing obviously stimulated the people that we lived with. At that time, and I only found out when doing my nurse training in the army, I had no idea what a lesbian was. All that I knew was that life became almost bearable if we licked things, and played with things and let them play with our percies.

The abuse was institutional. I thought it was quite normal behaviour to get down between a girl's legs and just lick until she moaned and moaned and sort of stopped. Unfortunately, it wasn't just the girls, but it was the people who were in control. So we were systematically raped, more often than not daily; and this rape consisted of games, playing at licking and poking and being licked and poked and being jumped on. Of having women's bits in your face, several women sometimes. Of being part of the group, of being dressed up like a living doll.

The revulsion and the sickness that I feel about those days can't be washed away and they don't go away. It is only later that I learned that I needed to claim my shadow, for these experiences of me, are me.

© J K Adler-Collins 2008