On 26 October 2016, a horrific memory came up. I was fifty-one years old and living with my partner and two children.
Throughout my life, I suffered depression, I couldn't forge relationships and found life difficult. My childhood home was a cramped cottage with warring parents and little money coming in. I naturally explained my problems to this.
Only this.
What I didn't realise was that an uncle lived in my toddlerhood home. His mention was scarce and I kept gleaning over this detail, thinking it irrelevant. It was his face I had seen in this memory. I have now come to realise I was raped at the age of three.
I am horrified to think he had lived with us for so long. What else has he done to me? No wonder I constantly sought diversion. No wonder I suffered depression. I was trying to run away from myself.
One diversion was a diary. A detailed one.
My diary has enabled me to establish assault sites in the village, for Uncle Dan took me out in the pushchair. He then committed acts of rape on deserted roadsides.
With my diaries, I have been able to journey into a past I didn't know existed.
The journey begins here.
With illustrations and photographs.