A Life More Ordinary

Well, then. We’re now into what was Chapter Two of the book before it became a blog. So far, so good.

Now we come to one of the things that I’m most afraid to share. So, why share it on a public blog, you may well ask? Justifiably too, because I’m not sure that I can give you an answer. Perhaps it’s because I’ve committed to telling my story that I feel it should be an honest account of who I am. Warts and all, so to speak. And I’m certainly stubborn enough to stick to it if that is the reason. Perhaps, in trying to make sense of who I am and where I’ve been…perhaps I’m hoping that you might do a better job of making sense of it than I am or have done. Allow me to ask a favour before you read any further, though. Please tread gently.

If you’ve read this far on my blog, you’ll be well aware that there were numerous incidents in my childhood where I was on the receiving end of some particularly unpleasant, violent abuse. I don’t really like to call it that, but let’s be honest, it’s what it was. My father also suffered horrendous abuse as a child, far worse than anything that I went through, but that shouldn’t diminish the impact of the events that took place. The ones that I’ve shared so far. What I will say is that, for all of his faults, what I’m about to share had nothing to do with my father. Not the other stuff. I have long since accepted that there are many things that I will never uncover about my childhood. Too many people are missing and too many rivers have flowed under far too many bridges. And I have blotted many things from my memory. Some things really are best left alone.

The problem with reflecting on one’s life and digging for memories is that it can unearth some truths that were not meant to be remembered. We’re encouraged to talk these days, aren’t we? Some of these truths were unearthed a long time ago, yet they were impossible to resolve. Even less chance of that happening now, but…this comes back to me wanting to understand why people do the things they do. There are memories that I am still discovering to this very day, some of which I have never shared with anyone.

And now I have a choice to make. How exactly do I share this? I’m not going to give many details; I don’t feel it’s necessary. I’m pretty sure that everyone can paint their own pictures.

There were times during my childhood, numerous occasions, where the abuse was not just violent. As I said earlier, I’m not sharing details, not because I don’t remember what happened. Much of it is as clear now as it was back then. I just don’t think it’s necessary. Some of these incidents are also as confusing now as they were all those years ago. Some of them are not. Some of them are easier to understand, some are painful and shameful. Some people should have known better. Some, arguably, did not. I also know that I am not the only one in my family to have gone through this. It doesn’t make it any easier, but it definitely makes it worse.

Here’s the thing. When you are starved of affection, you can believe that any sort of attention is good. When you are vulnerable, when you believe that you are nothing or nobody…when someone ‘sees’ you or makes you feel something, anything, then you’re already at risk. Reading that back, it sounds a bit like I’m victim-blaming myself, except I don’t think of myself as a victim. I try to avoid doing that.

As a child, you are taught to respect your elders. Respect adults. I appreciate that we’ve moved on from the likes of ‘speak when you’re spoken to, ’ and when I say that I appreciate that, it’s because a large part of my early years were lived under that exact mantra. Or perhaps ‘do as I say, not as I do’ would be nearer the truth. Adults are supposed to be…our protectors? Our teachers, our guiding lights. But what happens when they are not?

When I consider the things that happened to me, I suspect that I’ve just picked at the scab. It’s still there and it hurts. I’m afraid to look at it, it makes me feel…sad and ashamed. And I don’t know for sure what’s beneath it. I don’t want to remember, which I suppose is new territory for me. Some things that happened were ‘low level’, I suppose. Some things were less so.

And suddenly, I begin to understand why I find social situations difficult, why I struggle to maintain friendships and relationships. My trust is easily won because I want to think the best of people, but it is also easily lost. I am defensive and prickly and I will stand up for what I believe in. Not because I think it makes me a better person. Not to impress anyone. Not to be awkward. But because I refuse to let anyone make me feel as though I only deserve the worst that life has to offer.

I refuse to let anyone make me feel the way that some people did when I was a child. Unimportant. Lonely. Insignificant. Abandoned. Unloved.

In my fifty-odd years on this globe, I have overcome a destructive, jealous streak. I have loved and I have lost, many times. I have hurt and let down those dear to me. I have made so many mistakes. I have self-harmed and I have contemplated ending my life. I have been kicked when down, been hurt more than I thought was possible and I’ve been betrayed by people whom I thought I could trust, time and time again.

So if I am combative, brusque, opinionated and forthright, it’s because of all of those things. If I can’t quite hide my disappointment or my sadness at the way that events transpire, it’s because of all those things.

If I am distant and I hide away…if I think that people don’t like me. It’s because of all those things and more. I am complicated. I am hurting, still. I am ashamed because I don’t feel as though I deserve to feel pride or happiness. I feel underappreciated, I feel unseen. I feel alone. I am 52 and I am eight. I am moving forward one day at a time, yet I am trapped in the prison of my past. I am nothing, I am nobody. I am afraid.

But I am me.

Copyright Alec Hepburn, 2026.