I can forgive, but forgetting’s the bastard.

Like everyone, bad things have happened in my life. Some have been done to me, and some, I’m ashamed to say, I’ve done to others. Yes, at times in my life I have been a complete cunt.

Years of therapy (man) have helped me move on from childhood shit, from blaming parents for omissions, for the lovers who cheated. There’s a couple of things, however, that I just can’t move on from.

These two betrayals are insidious by the cloak of mystery that surrounds them, because although completely different in nature, these offences have in common that they were carried out by an anonymous aggressor. And no matter how much you try to move on, it still rankles in the wee small hours that someone hates you so very much that they would intentionally hurt you.

The most recent of these occurrences was the absolute charmer who took advantage of the Tories’ ‘shop a scrounger’ anonymous benefit fraud telephone line. Up to then, I had been fortunate to have avoided the perils of ATOS and their heartless and senseless assessments, and had been automatically awarded fairly decent levels of disability benefit. This award was no doubt largely down to a letter from my long-serving psychiatrist who explained that due to my complex, severe and enduring mental health problems I would not only be unable to hold down a job, but (and I have to admit this bit brings me to tears a little) I would ‘never be able to live a normal life’. So, lucky old me with my fucked up brain, at least I got the princely sum of ninety quid a week from the social with which to live like a Queen (in my abnormal life).

However, my nameless adversary knew better than any medical professional. Sitting on the phone, very possibly masturbating with joy, they gave the DWP a full rundown of my appearance, previous married names, height, weight and hair colour. The crux of their analysis, though, was that I am able to leave the house and ‘obviously lead a full life’.

How that phrase rankled my agoraphobic brain. My best mate is my carer and drags me our once every few days, without which I remain inside, often in my pyjamas, sometimes rarely able to shower. God forbid we should put a photo on Facebook of a rare moment of fun, because that obviously means THAT I AM FINE AND DESERVE NOTHING.

Well, dear reader, it’s 1-0 to my nameless Daily Mail reading wanker because my benefits were stopped and now, well I get by in the only way I can. And I can’t pretend that it’s good for my mental health.

My second beef that burns brightly dates way back to university. I studied at Cambridge as a mature student, after a less than illustrious schooling and adolescence. I was aged 29 and I remember the date because it was Burns night, 2005. I attended an all-female college and was invited to the neighbouring mixed-sex college for the Burns night dinner. The booze was flowing and I remember having a silly tiff with one of the male students, who was well known for fancying himself somewhat. Later that night he handed me a drink, and that’s the last thing I remember.

I came to about 14 hours later, having been attended to by paramedics; my friends had seen me become suddenly floppy and completely out of it, and had called an ambulance. The paramedics didn’t do anything except observe me, and lord knows why they didn’t test my blood, but I was subsequently ill for two whole weeks; I couldn’t look at light, I had a blinding headache and was constantly throwing up. I felt like I’d been physically assaulted.

Again, the sense of not knowing is what makes it hard to move on. I have no doubt that someone spiked my drink, but I have no way of knowing who it was, regardless of my suspicions. In the days that followed (because naturally the event had shocked the college; they immediately ran a campaign to raise awareness of drink spiking), several students came up to me independently with suggestions of who the perpetrator could be. For the record, their suspicions matched mine.

This would all be ancient history, an unpleasant anecdote but something that I’d write off as ‘one of those things’ were it not for an unpleasant twist in the tale. The person I suspect assaulted me in this cowardly and pathetic way is still part of my life, and keeps popping up due to mutual friends and interests. I’ve tried blocking on Facebook, and even unfriending people to avoid seeing his image, but he is physically present at places I go to.

There’s nothing I can do. I one thing I refuse to do, is absent myself. No matter how someone chooses to be a bully, their aim is to remove you from their domain. Sometimes just existing in a time and place is a radical act.

 

So these are my confessions. I’m not proud that I can’t forgive, forget and move on from these horrible events. I’d be a better woman if I could. I’d love to hear from anyone who has found that peace.

 

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