Child sex abuse survivor’s long awaited second book now published worldwide

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A CHILD-SEX abuse and cancer survivor’s long awaited second book of poetry is published worldwide today (Wednesday, 9 May 2018).

Multi award-winning writer Nic Outterside quit his 28 year career in newspaper and magazine journalism following a nervous breakdown in June 2013.

He began the slow road to recovery under the watchful eyes of his doctor and the support of his family. Part of the suggested therapy was for him to begin writing and talking about the life experiences which had led to his breakdown.

His first paperback book The Hill – Songs and Poems of Darkness and Light, published in November 2014. It was met with international acclaim and the first 1,000 print edition has almost sold out.

From childhood sexual abuse, through cancer, bereavement, bankruptcy, divorce, repossession of my home, the loss of two of my children and an assault which almost took my life, I guess there was a lot to write about,” says Nic.

Last week, Nic made the book more widely available by publishing a second edition on Amazon Kindle.

Now, after a three year wait, he has published its sequel Another Hill – Songs and Poems of Love and Theft.

“When I released The Hill in November 2014, I was struggling to get back to a life of sorts and fighting my way out of the corner,” explains Nic.

“I am still really proud of that work… it is certainly raw and maybe at times too personal. I now view it as less as an anthology of songs and poems, and more as a document of my life.

“By the middle of 2016, I was more than halfway through writing a raft of poems for the new book and by this time I was out of the corner, and still fighting.

“But by the time all the work for Another Hill – Songs and Poems of Love and Theft was concluded I was so far out of the corner you won’t find me… I have at last found my way home.

“I am so grateful to my close family and many friends who have given me support, inspiration and encouragement over the past five years,” he adds.

Another Hill – Songs and Poems of Love and Theft is priced at £2.20 ($3) on Amazon Kindle at: www.amazon.co.uk/Another-Hill-Songs-Poems-Theft-ebook/dp/B07CXYJTV4/

 

Sex abuse survivor’s first poetry book now available on Kindle and paperback

WP Hill

MULTI award winning writer Nic Outterside quit his job as editor of North Wales’ flagship newspaper The Denbighshire Free Press following a nervous breakdown in June 2013.

Nic launched his own publishing company and began the slow road to recovery under the watchful eyes of his doctor and the support of his family. Part of the suggested therapy was for him to begin writing and talking about the life experiences which had led to his breakdown.

From childhood sexual abuse, through cancer, bereavement, bankruptcy, divorce, repossession of my home, the loss of two of my children and an assault which almost took my life, I guess there was a lot to write about,” says Nic.

“My first book a paperback The Hill – Songs and Poems of Darkness and Light, published in November 2014 was a huge success, and last winter I started work on the follow-up.

“I also decided to make the book more widely available this week by publishing a second edition worldwide on Amazon Kindle,” he adds.

The Hill – Songs and Poems of Darkness and Light is a raw, and at times shocking, book of angst, joy and reflection on subjects as diverse as abuse, cancer, politics, depression, bereavement, love and joy. The full story behind the book can be listened to here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o2N2X7t7awo

You can buy the book on Kindle, priced just £1.43 at:

www.amazon.co.uk/Hill-Songs-Poems-Darkness-Light-ebook/dp/B07CNZ75MZ

Alternatively you can still buy the First Edition paperback (120 copies left of the print run of 1,000) The Hill – Songs and Poems of Darkness and Light in paperback, is priced at just £1.99 with £1.80 for UK post and packing and is available via Ebay: https://www.ebay.co.uk/itm/The-Hill-Songs-and-Poems-of-Darkness-and-Light-Nic-Outterside-Paperback/222959978770?hash=item33e9734912:g:3O0AAOSwdjha6DvY

 

 

Childhood Sexual Abuse – Echoes of the Darkness

abused child

ALL my life I have been aware of people passing my way, who have been victims of childhood sexual abuse.

But, to protect myself, and my own frailties, I have not questioned or drawn them close to talk about their lives… I metaphorically walked by on the other side.

This was until I met one very special person, who in hindsight became the catalyst I had waited almost a lifetime to meet.

Jay (not her real name) was damaged, just like me, and when we met she was emerging from the hell of a court case, which saw her father jailed for 10 years for the vile damage he had inflicted on her when she was a child.

She wrote this heart-wrenching tale for me at the time. I am rebooting it to try and help people understand the utter hell and damage created by paedophilia and child abuse:

“It all began when I was eight years-old, and looking back on it, there was obviously a premeditated plan in place all along.

At first it was almost imperceptible.

Cleverly disguised as the occasional misplaced hand, I would ask myself if I was just imagining it.

Now I realise this was ‘testing the water’ to see if I had the guts to speak out.

But I was terrified of him and said nothing.

And from within that first ever silence was borne unwitting complicity in years of unspeakable evil acts.

From the first touch – a slowly sweeping hand draped casually over my shoulder, fingers brushing against my undeveloped chest – I knew it was wrong.

Without ever having to be told good from evil, I felt innately that this behaviour was sickeningly out of place, for someone in a position of parental trust.

From that first moment, I was frightened, betrayed and trapped.

As soon as he knew I was keeping quiet, he began his quest in earnest.

It quickly became sessions of being touched inappropriately behind a locked bathroom door.

Where was my mother? How could she possibly not know what was happening? Why didn’t she rescue me?

Even when I wanted to shower before school, he would insist on being in the bathroom to have his morning shave – watching me in the mirror, and then weighing me naked on the scales, so that he could stand over me and ‘assess’ my body fat, marking up my weight on a wall-chart, and telling me how very ugly I was. I still hate bathroom scales to this day.

When I was 12, my mother went back to work, and my father notched up his activity levels immediately.

It developed into having to perform horrible rituals for two hours at a time, whilst she worked.

Tied into activities that he’d always told me were ‘normal and happened in every family’, by the time I realised it was all very far from normal, I couldn’t say anything to anyone.

The sessions became more sinister as I got older.

He would make me use horrible equipment, and forced me to look at pornographic magazines, making me pleasure him and – well before I was even 16 – he moved on to both kinds of rape.

He would unleash the fullest extent of his anger upon me if I didn’t make a good job of everything he required of me, and punishment was always of a much worse sexual nature.

Once I had gone through puberty, it didn’t matter to him what time of the month it was, so the fear of pregnancy hung over me like a constant black cloud.

I was endlessly at the doctors with internal problems and suffered terrible depression – which I still do to this day.

I spent hours either locked away in my room contemplating suicide, or walking the streets of my town to avoid him.

As I approached my final exams, it became clear that any books or equipment I needed to make sure of good grades, were going to have to be painstakingly ‘earned’.

The horror of this broke my spirit for further education and I left home on the day of my 18th birthday, with my few pathetic possessions in one canvas bag.

I tried to make a normal life, but it was impossible.

For 40 years I felt isolated, betrayed, dirty and abandoned.

I ricocheted back and forth in a succession of disastrous relationships, unable to find any stability.

But I never gave up hope of justice being done, and now that evil man is serving time for his crimes, which is a small compensation for what I endured.

And also, I never gave up hope of one day being, loved, valued and cherished.

These words mean nothing to those of us who have had a lifetime of being used, broken and disrespected.

Now I am slowly picking up the pieces and putting a life together. It can be done. No matter how late on in life, and how badly damaged we are, we are all worthy of being loved.

And if I am living proof of anything at all, it is the fact that there is always a tiny flicker of hope out there, somewhere in the darkness.”

Sadly, Jay’s and my relationship, which was always mutually caring, did not last.

In hindsight I guess we were both too damaged and the time was wrong. But I will always love her because she gave me the courage to face my own demon.

But it took another few years and a nervous breakdown for that to happen.

When I did come out and publicly write about my own abuse, the pressure was released and a recovery of sorts began.

https://seagullnic.wordpress.com/2016/01/14/the-lasting-legacy-of-childhood-sexual-abuse

Since then many, many friends have come to me and told me of their own harrowing stories of childhood sexual abuse – some had been friends for many years and had never breathed a word of what had gone before.

Other confidantes are complete strangers. One such person is Sam Hill, author of An Oath to Hell http://www.amazon.co.uk/An-Oath-Hell-Sam-hill/dp/1492248940 whom I met simply through a Twitter friendship. You can read more about Sam’s abuse and her battle to be heard here: https://cathyfox.wordpress.com/2015/03/18/an-oath-to-hell-sam-hill/

Gradually we survivors have become a network of sharing, and in doing so are helping each other along the road to further recovery and strengthening.

And that network keeps growing.

Over the past few days I have been reading, editing and transcribing some poems written by one of those people… a new and lovely friend who was abused for six years by her own brother.

I will called her Justine for the sake of this article, but again I have protected her real name.

I am entranced by the power of her words and the hell from which she has emerged.

More than twice she has tried to end her own life, but keeps going for the sake of her own children. And throughout it all she has documented every moment with poetry.

This particular one brought tears to my eyes:

Release

Release these chains, pick this lock

Try anything you can

Please don’t give up

See me for who I am

Please stay patient

I know I appear to be spiteful and cruel

Don’t be blinded by my reputation

There’s a good person inside, a hidden jewel

Just because it’s lost doesn’t mean it can’t be found

It screams and screams

But that doesn’t mean you hear its sound

Hidden reality that lies in dreams

Something that’s old can be renewed

Princesses are awoken by a kiss

I just need to be rescued

Returned to what I miss

I can change the hand I’ve been dealt

I know I can win But I also need help

Please, don’t give in

Her poems remind me of my own, but are so much more powerful and tell a different story. Now she is beginning to write her own harrowing autobiography, which I am sure may one day become a best seller. whole

This reading/writing/editing process could easily have brought me down, but crazily instead it is uplifting and warming. Because, you see, we are never alone.

So for anyone who may have suffered sexual or physical abuse as a child, the salvation is to reach out and speak out… we are here.

We are always here.

 

Brief Encounter #5

Cyril Smith MP

Cyril SmithMY meeting with the obese child abusing MP for Rochdale was thankfully very brief.

It was the late summer of 1980 and I was standing outside Euston Station following an enjoyable day out in London.

Suddenly I heard a kerfuffle at the nearby taxi rank.

I apologise to anyone who may find the following offensive but it really was bizarre in the extreme.

I turned to witness the gargantuan Cyril Smith trying and failing to get into the back of a black cab.

The moment of dark humour was complete when a man – I presume to be his secretary or parliamentary aide – pushed him with both hands into the taxi.

Suddenly he was in!

It was like a dry cork popping from an over-full wine bottle. The aide looked exhausted!

I never did find out how Mr Smith exited the taxi or whether this was a daily exercise in fat cabs.

Cyril Smith died in 2010 aged 82.

In 2012, following allegations of child abuse, the Crown Prosecution Service formally admitted Smith should have been charged with the sexual abuse of boys during his lifetime.

Greater Manchester Police said the boys “were victims of physical and sexual abuse” by Smith.

In November 2012, GMP Assistant Chief Constable Steve Heywood said there was “overwhelming evidence” that young boys were sexually and physically abused by Smith.

When you gonna wake up and strengthen the things that remain?

abused child

THE breakdown was a long time coming… 43 years to be precise. Yes, that really is a long time to keep a secret and many events along the way could have been my undoing much sooner. So I marvel that it took so long.

Two massive battles with cancer; the loss of most of my right lung and shoulder; the ruination of a much loved career by my own stupidity; the death of my best friend and later my father; divorces and more failed relationships than you care to shake a stick at; bankruptcy; the suicide of a family member; denial of access to two of my children for 10 years; the repossession of my home; discovering my wife was enjoying sex with another man; becoming a single parent at the age of 50 and an unprovoked assault that almost took my life anyway.

Set against that backdrop there is a star-spangled career in journalism with a raft of awards and recognition at the highest level, the chance to meet and talk with some stellar people, five wonderful kids, a host of amazing and loyal friends and finally, the woman who saved me, my darling wife Gill.

These are just snippits of my life so far and more than enough to form the framework of a somewhat gripping autobiography.

But casting a huge shadow over every move I have made, every tear, every relationship, every job and every sick joke was something much more sinister.

Wednesday 12 June 2013 was the day the elastic band finally broke and my life unravelled before my eyes, and those of my darling wife and precious son, who could only watch with me.

It all began in another time and another place…

I was, a young 14-year-old boy standing in darkness in open woodland, with my trousers around my ankles, being sexually abused by a 38-year-old man – a man trusted by my parents to care for me.

It was 1970.

He was the district commissioner for Scouts in my home town and over many months had encouraged me to attend camps, orienteering, patrol leader weekends and wide games to help me ‘get the most out of Scouting’.

I was a bright, gentle and slightly quirky kid who had enjoyed being in the Cubs and Scouts since the age of seven.

But not anymore.

The abuse had begun some months earlier, soon after my 14th birthday, at a so-called winter camping weekend at the Scout-owned woodland campsite – some three miles from my home, and five from the centre of town.

Over the course of 15 months, it had become regular, routine and progressively invasive.

I had been sworn to secrecy by my abuser. After all, I was the one he had caught ‘playing with’ himself and I would be totally humiliated if anyone found out.

I felt dirty and terrified and above all convinced I must be a ‘queer’ (gay) to allow this to happen. But the over-riding feeling was a need to escape this darkness, this nightmare.

I tried all manner of excuses not to attend Scouts and these frequent camps. When eventually my loving parents questioned my ongoing reluctance, I lied that I was being bullied. Their answer was simple: ‘stand up to the bullies’. Followed by: ‘If you leave the Scouts they will know they have beaten you’!

How I wish I had told them the truth. But I was sure my mother would not have believed me and accuse me of exaggerating. Equally, my father was a strong-minded man and I felt he would humiliate me further, if I told him, with jibes about me being a ‘poof’ or something. Sadly in adult hindsight he would probably have hugged me close and physically attacked my abuser had he known.

I don’t blame my parents, they were the most loving and caring I could have wished for. But times were different then and there were many things in life that were taboo.

Anyway, the abuse continued unabated as I turned 15 and as I turned more introspective and aloof to friends.

I was in my abuser’s control and I could not break free.

But I did eventually escape in the June of 1971.

My abuser had arranged a patrol leaders’ meeting at his house on the other side of town. It was a ‘must attend’ gathering.

I had met a lad called Brian from another troop and we had agreed to go together. Brian’s dad would take us there and my dad would pick us both up at 9pm.

We arrived at this spacious bungalow in a quiet middle-class cul-de-sac at about 7pm and were ushered inside by my abuser. Others were arriving and by the time we were all assembled, there were about 10 boys aged between 13 and 15 in the semi-lit dining room.

The meeting was a blur. My mind was already in the dark woods.  And in what seemed no time at all, parents were arriving to pick up their kids. Soon just Brian and I remained silently while the clock ticked.

My abuser said he would make a cup of tea for us both and asked if we would like a biscuit too. Brian said ‘Yes’ for both of us.

Then as he walked down the hallway to his kitchen, Brian whispered to me: “Scarper!”

Without hesitation we ran to the front door, fumbled at the latch and tore down the driveway to the cul-de-sac. No sign of my fecking dad! Where the hell was he?

We could hear my abuser call out our names from his front doorway, and we ran as fast and as far away as we could.

We didn’t stop until we reached a red phone box on the outskirts of the town centre, about a mile away. We then stared at each other. At that moment, I knew Brian was a victim too.

Shaking, I rang my home phone number. Mum answered. But before I could say much, she berated me for being ‘so rude’ as to run away from the nice man’s house. She also chastised me for leaving her and my dad terrified for my safety. She told me to stay at the phone box and when dad returned home she would send him out again to pick us up.

He did and when I eventually got home to the safety of my bedroom, I broke down and cried into my pillow all night long.

That night was a watershed for so many reasons.

I had begun to face this demon, by knowing that in Brian I was not alone.

From that day I used every excuse I could find to avoid my abuser and never went back to Scouts or camping again. Even when my own troop leader called at our house to ask if I was okay, I managed to lie and stay safe.

My passion for football and hard school work helped mask the real reasons.

But the events of 1970-71 were just the beginning of the nightmare for me. My abuser’s smirking face and the smell of his stale sweat never leaves me.

I lived and grew through my mid-teens convinced I must be gay to have allowed a man to do the things my abuser did to me. I also lived in terror that either my parents, sisters, or worse still my school friends, would find out and I would become an object of ridicule.

Resultant behaviour patterns started to emerge: a need to control every aspect of my life and the social environment around me, outbursts of vocal anger, walking away from any situation which threatened my control, and as I turned 18, progressively heavy drinking.

The control aspect was – and still is – vital. For without it I feel vulnerable and frightened and unable to function normally. At home my behaviour sometimes borders on OCD.

Once away at university in the far flung environs of Yorkshire I also had a need to prove I was ‘normal’ or straight! Whereas a lot of young men ‘sow their oats’ at uni’, I sowed more than most. I am not proud in any measure, but I bedded as many girls who would say yes as I could, proving to myself I was ‘straight’!

I also needed female company, as a fear of being unsafe and alone was constantly with me. By the time I was 22-years-old I was engaged to a girl who promised to always care for me.

By the age of 24, we were wed. It was a sadly inappropriate marriage of two polar opposites and lasted just eight years. My outbursts of vocal temper, deep introspection and a need to control my own life, plus an affair, did not help!

But I survived my first divorce – and an 18 month battle with cancer – and tried to start over.

In 1990, aged 34, I moved to Scotland and found a geographical escape from my past. It involved burying myself in my job. Often working 16 hour days, prolonged success at work allowed me to control my life at last.

One year after moving north I met a young woman who told me of the sexual abuse she had suffered as a 14-year-old, adding that I was the first person she had confided in. I could not share my abuse with her… but this was an epiphany and I saw a possible way out.

A colleague at work was married to a police officer and I used him to help me lodge a formal complaint against my abuser via the Inspector at the local police station. He, in turn, passed on the complaint to the police force in the area of southern England where I had lived as a young teenager.

It was November 1991.

I waited in trepidation, wondering what might happen next and preparing to come clean with my parents if a court case was involved.

Two weeks passed before I was asked to attend the local police station to talk with the Inspector again. He invited me into an interview room at the back of the station, where he told me something I was not ready for… my abuser was dead!

I walked zombie-like back to my office, barely able to talk with anybody.

How could my abuser be dead! How could he not face justice for what he had done? How could I carry on?

The anger inside me was immense.

The next few months were hard as I tried to keep a lid on my emotions. But rages came, tears and gloom overwhelmed and eventually in the summer of 1992, I walked out and left that part of Scotland for good.

The next 20 years were much like the previous 20 with black moods, multiple broken relationships and a growing need to drink to forget.

Only success at work allowed me to be my real self.

By 2003 I recognised I was fast becoming an alcoholic. Alcoholics Anonymous was a refuge and it allowed me to share my past in confidence with complete strangers.

But life happens and the sudden need to care as a single parent for my youngest child reinforced the desire to take control of life and at last start to live it with purpose as a sober dad.

In January 2006 I moved to Wales to begin again, both at work and at home.

Work had a purpose as I edited a small but successful weekly newspaper. I had already edited other similar local papers years earlier and had twice taken them to win newspaper of the year awards. This time it was treading water, but enjoyable all the same and allowed stability for a full seven years.

Stories came and went and along the way and I worked with and befriended some wonderful people. I also wasted no opportunity to expose convicted child sex offenders whenever their cases came to light. Ironically the so-called ‘paedo files’ in North Wales seemed more expansive than anywhere else I had lived or worked. It was like unsolicited cathartic therapy.

My empathy with the victims was immense. But still I could not share what remained buried for so long.

Last year fate suddenly dealt me straight and I met my soul mate and now my darling wife. I shared everything with her and I found love and stability for the first time since I turned 14. Life was starting to have a meaning.

But just when life breathes fresh air something unexpected takes the breath away and leaves it stale.

Four months ago that something happened and sent my life into a complete tailspin. And to mix metaphors, the tailspin became a train crash.

While researching on-line for more information about a North Wales’ child sex abuse case we were carrying in the paper, I decided to look for any lasting details about my own abuser.

It didn’t take long and the moment will stay with me forever.

I discovered that my abuser was indeed dead. But he had died in 1996, aged 64… some five years AFTER the police told me he was already dead! I double and triple checked my facts.

I still cannot comprehend what happened.

Had the police in 1991 cocked up? Had they identified the wrong man? Or worse still was it a conspiracy to protect someone of importance in the local community? I guess I will never know, but I had been denied the justice and closure I had wanted all those years earlier.

The rages and tears came again as I struggled to take back control.

Work was corrosive and I felt undermined at every turn by junior bosses whose experience did not hold a candle to my own. I felt managed out of my job and was losing control of my own newspaper and my life.

On Wednesday 12 June 2013 I walked into my office to find that one of these junior charge hands had changed my front page – after I had gone to press – without any reference to me. I flipped and with it my whole life lay on its back kicking into a nothingness.

But now as I write this I am, for the very first time, receiving professional help to deal with my demon. And it is my abuser who is the demon, not some bungling police officer.

The demon will never go away, but I have a loving wife, a courageous and wonderful mother, a gorgeous youngest son and some amazing close friends, who all now know of my dark secret. And by sharing with them, I am slowly losing the need to control my life. It is liberating. I am recovering.

And it is for them that I need to live and share my inner self. The abuser has not won… I am fighting back.

This blog is the means to that end.