Carrying the monkey [13]

In this episode, shocking revelations about how Bea is trying to cope with the terrible thing that has happened to her shake me to the core. Day by day, it's getting harder and harder for the whole family to deal with the aftermath of the attack - and to make matters worse, the trial may not take place for many more months.

Trigger warnings: this podcast deals with rape, sexual assault, anxiety, depression and eating disorders.
 
 Most mothers will never have to find out what happens when their child becomes the victim of a horrendous crime. I, Lisa Lennox, never imagined that it would happen to my family, to my 17-year-old daughter. But one benign, ordinary summer's day, it did. And so began my family's immersion in the horror unleashed by such a crime, the trauma, the fear, the on-going nightmare of dealing with a police and criminal justice system which, if not completely broken, is certainly fatally fractured and struggling to cope. 
 
 Everyone is Talking About This is the true story of an ordinary family forced to face an extraordinary circumstance. I’ve tried to be honest and forthright about my desperate struggle to help my child get justice - and, on many occasions, to see the reason to go on living.

Please be aware that this podcast mentions sexual assault, rape, eating disorders and mental health issues. There is occasional strong language and some graphic detail. 

If you have been affected by any of the issues in this podcast, here are some organisations you can contact in the UK:
Rape Crisis
0808 500 2222 - calls are free.
Or you can visit their website - https://247sexualabusesupport.org.uk/

Beat, the UK's eating disorder charity
08088010677 - calls are free.
Or visit their website - https://www.beateatingdisorders.org.uk/

You can also speak to your GP or, if you are still at school, someone from your safeguarding team. 


To my listeners - please do tell your friends about this audiobook podcast and encourage them to listen so that as many people as possible are aware of the reality victims of rape are up against on a daily basis here in the UK and across the world. 

Help me to spread the word!

And contact me on: everyoneistalkingaboutthis@gmail.com 
or via Twitter: @63136_survivors to tell me what you like about the podcast and what I could improve. 

Thank you! 

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:02

A while ago, our French neighbours moved to Madrid, a consequence of Brexit. They come back for a pre Christmas visit and tell us that it's cold in the city, but there's no snow yet, though the surrounding mountains are coated in a layer of white frosting, like confectionery in the pastelaria. The main difference between London and Madrid, they say, is that there, every morning, the sky is blue as opal, clear and translucent. Looking out at yet another grey day, I yearn for such blue skies. In the UK right now, thousands are still without electricity and heating, days after Storm Arwen, and Storm Barra is close behind. It's difficult to imagine cloudless heavens. My world is shrinking as it did when the children were little. Those days when Bee was three and Iris a newborn, and it was a triumph if I managed to get out of the door to the shops or the playgroup or the park. I'm reminded of this when I go to meet Talia, my next door neighbour from those times, for coffee and a catch up. It's lovely to see her but depressing at the same time. She's shocked and horrified about what Bee has been through. She tells me that her daughter, Lise, just a couple of years older than B, was raped by an acquaintance at a party. Lise didn't tell Talia for over a year, and once she did, both knew there was absolutely no point in reporting the incident, as there was zero chance of any charges being brought. After our meeting, Talia sends me a text, harking back to those days when we first knew each other, and our children were just babies. For a moment I wish with all my heart that I could roll back time, to those years before the girls grew old enough to leave the house on their own, before this man, Mr Y, came along to wreck our lives. Early in December, Miss X has her plea hearing. I pretend that I'm fine, but I'm on tender hooks all day. I hear nothing from the police about what happened. Next day, again, nothing. By late afternoon I'm losing patience. I email the witness support officer. He replies The hearing was adjourned. A trial date for Miss X has been set. It's twenty fifth of April. I nearly keel over. That is another three months to wait from the trial date we had previously been given of the end of January. If it's pushed back to April, that will be the summer term, just before B's A level exams begin. I email back, asking what trial this is. Is it the joint trial? Just for Miss X? Why was the hearing adjourned? The witness support officer doesn't know. I can't get hold of any of our police contacts. Caroline suggests that the defence have asked for more time to prepare their case. I have to tell B. She's alarmed, upset, appalled, as expected. It's at moments like these that I realise that however much we all pretend to be going about our business, not fixating on the crime in the trial, it's all a lie. It's there, every minute of every day and all through the night, twenty four seven. It's exhausting. That evening, Phil and I argue, about money, about tidiness, about everything and nothing. I know that Iris is in her room listening and crying. Usually I hate the fact that B spends her time with headphones in, blocking it all out, hiding from the world, but tonight I hope that's precisely what she's doing. I'm conscious all the time of the girl's watching eyes and listening ears, and I know I can't live up to expectations. I'm not that good or heroic a person. I'm trying so hard to hold it all together, to reassure and to soothe, but it's all a facade, and one day soon it's all going to come tumbling down. Maybe today is that day. I had troubles and problems in my teenage years and no one to share them with. I hope that I'm sparing B from this state by always being there for her, but I don't know if I am. Most of us don't die of unhappiness or loneliness. Instead we just carry on with bits of ourselves missing, like a piece of china chipped at the edges and filled in with paste, so that the cup or plate still functions more or less as it's supposed to, still looks more or less as it's supposed to look, but is intrinsically and inherently flawed. Lacking. I'm a grown woman, but that night I barely sleep, fearful and sad as any lost and lonely teenage girl. Next day again I hear nothing from the police. It's not until the end of the week that David contacts me. The plea hearing for the conspiracy to pervert the course of justice was adjourned because Mr Y's and Miss X's hearings weren't joined together as had been requested. They will now both be heard on the twentieth of December. The trial date of twenty fifth, April is automatically generated by the court. The barrister and CPS lawyer are still working on merging the trials, and it is possible that the date will be put back from the one we were previously given of twenty fourth, January, but we don't know yet, and David doesn't know when we will know. I tell B what I've learned from David and it makes her even more anxious. For every action there's a reaction, so I'm saddened but not surprised when, the next day, she comes to me in tears as I'm getting ready for work. Once again she can't go to school. She can't face it. It's too much. Once again I don't push it, just register her absence on the school website, and beg her to call me if she starts to feel worse, if she has black thoughts, if she I don't say it, but we both know what I mean. I remind her of the idea that, when others are piling things onto you, you need to shift some of the responsibility. Take the monkey off your shoulders and put it onto theirs. I tell B to give me the monkey, put it on my back, let me carry it. She tells me to shut up, I'm annoying her. Nevertheless, I feel the weight of that monkey all day, and for every day to come. Omicron is surging, so when Phil falls ill we assume that is what he's got, but all the tests are negative, so it must be some other bug. My sister sends out the secret Santa list for our family Christmas presents. There's nothing secret about it at all. We all just get one adult and one child to buy for, maximum spend fifty pounds, and the recipient can, should, ask for exactly what they want. I'm tempted to ask my secret Santa for five bottles of night nurse, my preferred method of getting some sleep. Then another problem rears its ugly head. My legs have been covered with scratches from the attempts of Colin to climb them. Most of the cuts have scabbed over and healed, but one large blot has not. I know, or at least suspect what it is, another basal cell carcinoma. I've had several removed already, a legacy of the blistering sunburn I suffered every year as a red haired, blue eyed, incredibly fair skinned child, not by going abroad, just from Cornwall, but sun creams just weren't as effective back then. As I'm walking home from work I call the GP to ask for a referral to the dermatology department at the local hospital, where I'm on first name terms with most of the doctors. Almost as soon as I've rung off the phone beeps again. I mean little by this point. It's a no caller ID, so bound to be something to do with B. I wait until I finish my shopping and call back. It's my counsellor from the Beacon. B has disclosed to her therapist that she's been self harming. Okay, I say, and no, she hadn't told me. I'll talk to her about it. I'm not surprised. I'd been expecting it. I can hardly blame Bee either. If I were her, I'm sure I'd be self harming too. When I get home, I sit B down to have a chat. Before I get to the subject, she tells me that she and Olivia were on the tube when they were pestered and harassed by two youths. The lads put their feet on Olivia's legs, taunted them, called Bee a ginger prick. As B and Olivia got off, one of them kicked out at Olivia's bag, almost striking her face. What did you do? I ask. Nothing, B replies, emotionlessly. What could we do? This is where we're at in this country. Young girls are persecuted by random males, and it's so commonplace they shrug it off, believing there's nothing to be done about it. And Boris Johnson thinks we don't need additional legislation to deal with this. I'm shaking with anger. Next time, get off at the next stop, go straight to the station staff and report it. Get them to call the transport police. If they won't, Dar nine nine nine will use your alarm. This is not okay, and you don't have to just put up with it. B nods, and I'm quite convinced she'll do no such thing. She and whatever friend she is with, will not want to make a fuss or draw attention to themselves. It occurs to me that if this anti pestering act ever did actually come into being, the country had better start building another few hundred prisons, because if even ten percent of the men who harass women in public every day got convicted and received custodial sentences, the existing establishments would be full in days. B is silent for the rest of the evening and takes herself off to bed early. My poor, poor girl. What she is going through is too much for anyone to bear, let alone someone so young and fragile, and even if her mum is carrying the monkey. Every day seems to bring more news about the police, rape, the criminal justice system, and the failings of one or all of these. The Manchester Mayor has launched a campaign called Is This OK to raise awareness of the issue. I watch the video and it's interesting, an accurate representation of what so many women experience day in, day out. But I don't know that it'll do any good. I'm sure the men who taunt and pester and harass women know they shouldn't be doing it, but they want to do it because it makes them feel good, or because it makes them look good in front of their friends, or for no particular reason except that they can. During a free period at school, I listened to Kit Molthouse, who has some role in the Ministry of Justice, on Radio 4's woman's hour, being grilled on rape charging levels. His answer is the same old bullshit. Complicated cases, difficult circumstances, challenging situations, excuse after excuse after excuse, blah blah blah. But you can bet your bottom dollar that if men were the ones facing this epidemic of sexual violence, it wouldn't be complicated, difficult, or challenging. It would be sorted. And quickly. In the midst of all of this, B and I go once more to the police station for an appointment with the intermediary Ursula, who will assist B during her cross examination. This time, at the end of their time together, I'm actually allowed in to meet her. She is quite lovely, carrying with her an aura of absolute calm and serenity mixed with steely professionalism. She reminds me of one of the nursery workers who cared for B and Iris when they were little girls, and who I still see around our area regularly. Ursula explains that she can make sure the defence don't bombard B with questions, that their cross examination is fair, that B has time to consider what she is asked and answer in her own time. The fact that B has extra time and breaks in exams works in her favour, as she can have these same dispensations in court. As we're leaving, I feel more at ease than I have for ages, reassured by the thought of Ursula's presence during what will be a horrifically grueling experience for B. Beatrice, as always, is wrung out by the meeting. The next day she has to go back to the beacon for another health check, and to see her counsellor. Another day she won't go to school. There's nothing to be done about it, but it makes her A levels seem even more of a fantasy than ever. It's also the day for my counselling session with Lucy. As soon as I've logged on and her face has come into vision across the ether, I know there's bad news. More self harm? Worse? I don't know. But I can spot it like those people who used to be able to predict the football score by the TV presenter's tone of voice. Be has gone to her appointment high on weed, Lucy informs me. B was told that I would have to be informed, and B was very angry. It's not acceptable for B to turn up at the beacon under the influence of drugs. I just sit and listen, numb. What can I say? The bad news continues. Bee has told her counsellor that she uses weed to dull the eating disorder and self harm feelings, but that it isn't working so well as it did, and it also makes her hungry, so more likely to eat, so more likely to hate herself. I nod. Are you aware of this? asks Lucy. I don't know what to say. Is it a trick question? If I know and I haven't taken steps to stop it, I'm a negligent mother. If I don't know, that also makes me a negligent mother. I feel like a woman being tried for witchcraft in medieval times. If I don't drown, I'm a witch and I'll be burnt at the stake, and if I do drown, I'm not a witch, but I'm dead anyway. Be hasn't specifically told me that she uses weed, but I know that most of the young people do, I say warily. Hm, replies Lucy. There's a pause and then she starts talking about Bee's coping mechanisms, how I need to help her find ways to quell the urge to self harm. I stare at her blankly. Does she not understand that if I had the slightest idea how to do this, I would already have done so? A sudden realization comes to me. These sessions with Lucy, contrary to what I was told at the beginning, are nothing to do with my welfare or well being. They are simply there to provide a conduit to serve up the bad news. I assume it's some kind of safeguarding thing. The beacon can say that they told the parent, they passed on the information and the concern, and then they can wash their hands of it. Duty of care adhered to, job done. I tell Lucy that I need to go. Bee is still out, and I need to try to contact her, find out where she is and what she's doing. If she's upset, as Lucy tells me she is, then perhaps she's in danger. She could be on the tube, standing on the platform. I can't articulate the horror I'm imagining. Voicing my profound fear would make it seem more real, and I can't cope with that right now. I call B's number. It goes to answer phone. I call again. Same thing. I'm composing a text message, thinking she might see that if the phone is on silence. I'm starting to panic. I'm not sure what to do. I've no idea where she is, wandering around London, stoned and sad and vulnerable. The phone rings, making me jump out of my skin. It's B. I was on the phone to my counsellor, she explains when I pick up. I wonder why. Her session was earlier. Why are they phoning each other? But I don't ask. It's more important to find out where she is right now. I'm in Hackney, she tells me. I wanted to get a PCR before I go to visit Tabby at Uni. It was the only place I could find that had appointments today. Right, I say. I'd forgotten about the planned excursion to see her friend in Liverpool. Whereabouts in Hackney, I ask. It's only five thirty PM, but it's pitch dark outside, and nowhere is safe for a young girl in the state. I don't know, B replies. I suppress my sudden annoyance. What is she thinking? If I hadn't called, was she just going to wander the streets aimlessly all evening in the hope of finding herself in a familiar neighbourhood? What street are you on? Can you see any signs? I ask her. She reads one out to me and I quickly Google it, then tell her the bus that she can get that will bring her towards home and which stop to get off at. I say to text me when she's on the bus and I'll come and meet her at the stop. Twenty minutes later she phones again. She's got on the bus, but in the wrong direction. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Right, where exactly are you now then? What can you see around you? By some incredible coincidence she's managed to find herself right outside an overground station from where she can travel back to our neighbourhood. I talk her through what to do and she tells me when she's on the train. I put the phone down and rest my head on the cool wooden surface of my desk. Thank goodness for mobile phones. But on the other hand, how did any of us, anyone in my generation, ever manage to do anything? Once we walked out of our front doors, we were completely on our own. Our mothers were not permanently at the end of a phone line to help us out if things got sticky. Everything is so different now. I go to meet B at the station. Once we're back home a weight lifts off my shoulders, as it does every time both the girls are safely indoors. It's the only time I can relax. It doesn't feel like the right time to talk to B about what Lucy has told me, so I wait until the next day. As soon as I bring it up, B starts to cry. I am calm and reasonable throughout, talking her through the pros and cons of smoking weed. I ask her where she gets it. From friends she tells me, once from a man who approached a group of them in the street. At this confession, alarm bells loud as sirens begin ringing in my head. B, I say, you can't buy drugs from randoms in the street. For a start you have no idea what they're actually giving you, it could be anything. And secondly, they'll begin with weed, and then they'll offer you hard drugs for next to nothing, ketamine, heroin for a fiver, I don't know, whatever it takes to get you hooked, so you'll keep coming back to them for more. All they want is to exploit you and get your money. I've never been offered those drugs, B protests, and I wouldn't take them. I pause, suppressing my anger. I'm glad to hear that, but I know how easy it is to get sucked in, and hard drugs is my line in the sand be. If you start taking heroin or anything like that, it's over for me. I'll support you through everything and anything except that, because I already know I couldn't deal with it. There's no reason or excuse to take drugs, and I won't stand by you if you take that road. I won't be able to. I just need to make that clear. Be nods. She's weeping, her nose running, her head bowed. Is it true what I'm saying? Probably not. How could I ever desert her or any child of my own? The truth is that I couldn't. But I need B to know how serious it is. I don't think I can go to Liverpool, sobs B. I want to go, but when I think about it I don't know if I can make it. You don't have to go, I assure her. It's not compulsory. If you know you're not going to enjoy it, don't go. Tabby will understand. Why can't I be normal? she pleads. Why can't I do the things other people don't think twice about? I hug her close. You can, you will. You just can't do them yet. Yet is the key word. It takes time. You've been through something horrific that no one you know has suffered. You will be able to do these things. You just can't do them yet. I delve in my pocket and hand her a tissue. And anyway, there's no such thing as normal. Normal doesn't exist. Lots of people have the same fears and anxieties. It's not just you. I ask why she was on the phone to the counsellor when I called, and she tells me that the counsellor was informing her that I'd been told about the weed and turning up high to the appointment. This really pisses me off. Lucy had specifically said that B was told that I would be informed when she was in the session, but this clearly was not the case. Instead she's been phoned when she could have been anywhere, when she's out on the streets alone. All the horrific possibilities of how she might have responded to this flood my mind again. I'm definitely going to feed back to the Beacon that I think they've handled this really badly, and it's the end of sessions for me. Now I know what the agenda is, I'm not interested. I just don't have time for it. Eventually Bee calms down and I make dinner. Then I transfer some money from my savings and order Christmas presents with the vain hope that showering the girls with gifts will make them feel better. It probably won't, but spoiling them might make me feel better. In the end, B goes to Liverpool. I put her on the train, wait at the station until it's pulled out to make sure she doesn't jump off at the last minute. Once she's departed, I head for the Central London Blood Donor Centre. I have O negative blood and I try to do my bit for humanity by donating this valuable resource to the NHS. But today my donation is not possible as my iron is too low. You're probably just tired, the kind nurse tells me. You need to put your feet up over the Christmas break. Get the family to look after you for a change. I give a hollow laugh. Yeah, right. I don't hear from B the next day, so I call and finally get hold of her at four PM. They're still in bed. All is well. I tell her I'll meet her when she gets back at nine PM on Monday. I'm making Iris a pair of dungarees for Christmas. For the rest of the weekend I absorb myself in that, taking solace from diligently following the instructions, step by step, putting the jigsaw together, watching as the blue corduroy fabric gradually, magically, takes on the shape of the dungarees. Colin the kitten watches with interest, getting excited when a cotton reel runs out, and I donate it to him as a gift. If only we could all have such small desires, be so easily pleased.