Content Warning: This article contains descriptions of child sexual abuse, institutional neglect, and ongoing trauma. Please prioritize your wellbeing while reading.
I am writing this with my leg in a cast. A few weeks ago, a flashback - a memory storm so violent it threw me to the ground, left me with a fractured bone.
The Met Police call my case "historical."
Like it’s a dusty record in a forgotten archive. But archives don't break your bones. The past doesn't put you in a cast in 2025. This isn't history. This is a fresh injury from a crime scene they abandoned decades ago.
That word, "historical," is the clinical, bloodless stamp they use to dismiss a childhood drugged, abused, and shattered. It’s the word that allows them to escort your trauma to the door because it has crossed some invisible expiration date. They don't want to investigate. They don't want to act.
But trauma doesn't age out. Pain doesn't expire. And neither should justice.
The Anatomy of a Betrayal
It was a meticulously planned operation, executed over years. It began with a promise.
You can tell a child he’s going on holiday. You can watch him get so excited he makes a scrapbook, cutting pictures from travel brochures and pasting them into an old photo album, a book of dreams.
Then you can take that child on the holiday he would call "weird" for years, never understanding why the word felt so small for something so devastating. You hand him over to people already waiting. You take him to a café to make it look normal. You give him a drink. Then another. And awareness dissolves. For ten days, he is drugged, assaulted, and forgotten. Then he is brought home like lost luggage, damaged and silent.
The drives home from boarding school were another part of the design. At the end of each term at Malsis, I'd be collected by a Freemason - never the same man twice. A four-and-a-half-hour drive that always took much longer. In the car, I’d be offered a Coca-Cola and chocolate, a rare treat. That’s how it started. Sleeping pills at first, then GHB. The drugs created sensations and compulsions I didn't understand. And then... nothing. Blackness. Lost time. I’d always arrive home groggy, walking straight to bed.
Once, I was too chatty, too aware. The driver panicked, pulled over, and abandoned me on the side of the motorway. I waited for hours until a stranger found me. The excuse my mother gave the police, I believed completely. I had blind faith in her.
Now, I understand. Those were not holidays or car rides. They were transactions.
The Unravelling
The moment my denial shattered and the truth flooded in, my abuse began its devastating second phase.
For years, I’d done everything to outrun it, non-stop work, back-to-back relationships, stress and alcohol. I was trying to hold everyone else up while standing on the most precarious foundation imaginable.
When clarity finally came, the pain was so relentless, so unnatural, I would not have survived without my dog, Roxy. Every unanswered question of my childhood found its terrible answer. The secretive meetings, the arguments I wasn't meant to hear, the way certain men looked at me ... it all cascaded into a flood of revelation that destroyed everything.
The most devastating realisation was this: my parents never loved me. It was all a performance.
How do you love a child and actively facilitate their abuse? How do you gamble with their life, exposing them to sexually transmitted infections and the risk of HIV? I used to get infections, rectal bleeding, pain no child should endure. I now know it wasn't the "spiky poos" I was told it was. It was abuse. And for sixteen years, no one ever took me to a doctor.
A Wall of Silence
The police have known about this for some time. They investigated one late-night trip to a service station, a location they had me identify from photographs. They returned with "No further action. No address." They already had the address.
They briefly looked into "Big Roy," a Mason who visited our house. After speaking with my mother - the primary witness and facilitator of my abuse, they concluded he was "probably dead." Case closed. The Turkey holiday? "Not in their jurisdiction." A dead end by design.
If I had stolen millions from a bank twenty years ago, would they dismiss it as "historical"? No. They would investigate relentlessly, because money on a spreadsheet matters. But a child? A life?
This institutional indifference is mirrored by my own family. As I've reached out to relatives who were there, I've been met with a wall of silence. They actively prevent me from accessing my late father's storage unit, which may hold evidence. The man I buried may not even be my biological father, and their terrified silence only confirms they are hiding something massive.
I am ignored by police who won't investigate. By therapists with two-year waiting lists. By a family that chose silence.
The Silence Ends Now
This isn't historical. It is an active wound hemorrhaging into every moment of my present. My fractured foot is proof. The police's refusal to see this is a profound and disgraceful failure.
We are not historians studying ancient events. We are survivors living with the immediate, ongoing impact of crimes committed against us. Every moment the system dismisses our pain only deepens the damage.
They are all hoping I’ll give up or disappear. They will not get their wish.
I have more fire and determination than ever. I am going to scream and shout and make as much noise as it takes to destroy the silence my family is so desperately trying to maintain. This website, this article, my art, it is all part of forcing the change that must happen.
Because this silence isn't just neglect. It's complicity. It is the abuse continuing.
The silence ends now. And if you're reading this, then it means we're winning.
