Cruel to Be Kind

By Rebecca Branton

I wish to share with you my journey through physical, sexual and mental abuse both whilst growing up and within the domestic abuse during my marriages and how I found the courage to leave despite the challenges and lack of confidence.

I want to share the traumatic arrivals of my children each having their own story and the challenges of parenthood in a turbulent marriage.

By drawing a line under my old life and the realisation of how much history had repeated itself, was truly a difficult lesson that I was to learn

No longer could I think about what had been, or what will be. Freedom was precious to me but it came with a price. It came with the realization of how much I hid from myself. The realisation that I had become a prisoner in my own world, that I wanted to be free. I wanted to live in the moment, to live life to the full and grab it with both hands and shake the hell out of it, to feel peace every night, and not apologies for being me.

When you think you have nothing you have everything, all you truly need is love and courage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Sep 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781665580038

Book preview

CRUEL TO BE KIND

REBECCA BRANTON

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AuthorHouse™ UK

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Bloomington, IN 47403 USA

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: UK TFN: 0800 0148641 (Toll Free inside the UK)

UK Local: 02036 956322 ([phone] from outside the UK)

© 2020 Rebecca Branton. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/15/2020

ISBN: 978-1-7283-7915-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-7916-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-8003-8 (e)

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Prologue

Intro

Feel The Fear And Do It Anyway!

One The Painful First Years

Start

The Beginning

Light In The Darkness

Leaving Home

Axminster

Leaving Bedford

Losing Dad

Two Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed And Still Very Blue.

Home Life - Gain With One Hand And Loose With Another!

Three Moving On

A Fresh Start In Cornwall

Four A Fresh Start

Five Finding My Feet

PROLOGUE

G oing to Turkey was wonderful in so many ways. I knew I would not come home until I’d finished writing my book that had been stopped and started so many times for over 20 years.

By drawing a line under my old life and the realisation of how much history had repeated itself were truly difficult lessons that I was to learn. I sat by day for 10 hours solid and only stopping to swim when I was stuck on how to word something or to eat with my friend, but as soon as we’d come back I’d write. So much so that I had blisters the words couldn’t come out of my head fast enough, the frustration of pens failing and arms and hands aching was nothing in comparison to the drive to finish, to get where I needed to be.

We would leave our loungers when the sun had finally set behind the mountain and take a drink to our room. It would take great will power not to pick up a pen again when my friend was in the shower so I’d concentrate on getting ready for the evening. This never filed me with as much excitement as there would be people. But we were left to eat after a drink at the bar and to watch the evening entertainment. Once the entertainment was finished all I wanted to do was dance the music resonated through my entire body and I could lose myself. It was so loud and the bass so deep that it would take over my body and override my mind. No longer could I think about what had been, or what will be. Just now in the moment.

The freedom was precious to me but it came with a price. It came with the realization of how much I hid from myself. The realisation that I had become a prisoner in my own world, that I wanted to be free. I wanted to feel this happy all the time. I wanted to live in the moment, to live life to the full and grab it with both hands and shake the hell out of it. To feel the same peace every night as I did in turkey - I gave everything. I wrote till I could write no more and I danced till my legs could give me no more and continued to feel the beat within my heart. I felt alive, and now I wanted to wake up.

I wanted to feel like this every day … is this believing in fairy tales? Maybe, but then why the hell not? After all don’t we pride ourselves on working with that which you cannot see but feel with every ounce of your body? I want to break my chains - the very last ones! I want to be able to fly!

INTRO

A t 22 I wrote in a diary that " even on a good day I can safely say that I do not know why I bother. It’s as if every nice thing that I have ever done comes back on me - but someone got it wrong. All they have down is that I’m an evil cow that deserves everything in this life that she has coming to her. Maybe I was a bitch in a past life and do deserve everything I get, but if no one tells you exactly what you have done then how you can change or fix it.

Everyone expects me to be this bubbly can handle everything girl - but do you know what…. I can’t handle shit!!!

All I want to do is go through life the easy way, quietly with as little trouble as possible. I don’t like confrontation, so what happens, I meet a guy who is like Victor Meldrew in his younger days. An argument, according to him, is a way of clearing the air. A yelling match is his way of getting his point across and God help you if you dare feel the strains of PMT or have a good cry because then you’re a wimp and can’t handle the real world. If you’re a bitch it is good because he made you strong or you’re a nag depending on the mood of day. If you take on the strain of the household the DIY, the housework, the decorating the paperwork the move and purchase then you’re butch. But hey, who wants to be accused of being boring.

My life certainly isn’t that. In the space of just 5 years I have been beaten, abused mentally and physically by my mother but I guess this is just a continual thing so it shouldn’t even be worth a mention. I have become a fiancé to three men, one cleared off and the other well he wasn’t worth the time of day what I thought at first was kindness was simply control. The third and final, as they say, well he came with all the extras. The kids, the wife, the stressful job, the promotion, the hassle…….and the love! It’s there, but you need to look hard and enjoy it while it’s there. He changes his mind like the wind. I f something goes wrong in his life without a blink it’s your fault. If you complain or dare be annoyed about the same thing he is, well you might as well pack your case now. It is then your fault he is in that state of mind as you’re going on about it. All seems very familiar well read on… believe me there is no stone unturned, trust me I should know……………… it’s my book!!

Well as you can see I am tired of being Miss nice and bubbly, I’m tired of making sure every other fucker is fine. But most of all I’m tired of not swearing and not upsetting anyone. My mother couldn’t give a monkeys, my father died, my grandfather abused me and as for the rest of them…. well if they don’t want something then they don’t want to know. I could quite easily get on a plane and just fuck off. Sod the lot of them. I have poured myself a large stiff drink and I intend to finish the bottle and live dangerously. I mean for God’s sake I’m 22 and yet I feel 42. I feel like I have the world and his brother on my shoulders and the best bit is no fucker has even noticed. Sometimes I think it would be interesting to see what would happen if anything serious did happen to me. How many would stop and ask me how I was then? How many would ask what I did at the weekend, and I wonder just how many would truly care. The frightening thing is I don’t think any of them would even notice. It is always can you do this, can you do that, but when I have plucked up the courage to ask for help no bugger even listens let alone helps me. Please someone tell me what I have done that is so bad, what have I done that is so awful? I have tried to figure it out for the last 22 years and still I can’t figure it. Maybe I should stop caring; maybe I should be the person everyone obviously thinks I am. Oblivious to all pain and Heartache with a skin as tough as a Rhino… sometimes I just wish that this was the case… I truly do."

At 23 I wrote - The situation has certainly turned around over the last five years. I discovered that I truly do have friends and at a time of crisis I have found out who the genuine ones are, these are guaranteed to be those that you least expect them to be.

Clawing my way back up the ladder from a break down (or break through as I like to refer to it), puts a different perspective on life entirely. This time last year I agreed with my diary at 22. I was struggling so hard to cope with life in general, that I could think of nothing better than to end it all. I thought that would remove the burden from everyone, and I could escape completely from my problems, which seemed to grow with every new day. If it could go wrong - it did!!

My usual smile and ‘take it on the chin attitude’ had taken so much that I was black and blue from the emotional battering. And then it happened. The straw that broke the camels back; I crashed and burned with nothing more to give. Seeking medical help I got a grand score of 21/21 for anxiety and 19/21 for depression. At this time I swore I was the only one that had ever been this low-which makes you feel a great deal worse I can tell you. You feel as if you are completely alone and yet you are surrounded by people; I thought I was the only person to panic when the phone rang, hide when someone came to the front door and feel physically sick every time I went out the front door. But I wasn’t alone - far from it. I had mentally gone through every suicide method, and whenever I attempted one someone always got in the way.

The hardest part was getting help, but once you have discovered that many people suffer with depression, the odds are a great deal higher than anyone would care to imagine. It is not about taking a stream of drugs or being locked in a hospital as I benefited from on two separate, terrifying occasions. It is about sitting down and telling the tale of why you want to quit and then living to tell the tale of what made you stay. When I was younger and got bullied in school a friend once told me that it takes more courage to hold your head up high and walk away. This is true in the physical context but emotionally, sometimes, however hard it is you have to take the bull by the horns and deal with the problems Once you hit the floor there is only one way left to go ……..up!!

FEEL THE FEAR AND DO IT ANYWAY!

I started writing my story when I was 21 when things were on the up at last. But as things became more manic the notes got put in a cupboard and forgotten for a year or too. When I re-read them it made me realise how things had changed, so I began writing again. This time the words were stronger and harder, I had become a stronger person.

Gradually piece by piece my world, perfect to those outside fell apart in a very short space of time. Once again the book got placed on hold. Eventually I put pen to paper again and found that by writing it all down it felt although I was washing everything away. If I told my story to a stranger, it was easier – the old saying of a ‘problem shared’ springs to mind. But what happens if you can’t actually figure out what the problem is? What if you don’t understand why things have happened – then what? When nothing makes sense it’s best to stop trying to figure it out. Sometimes there is no reason; it’s just that way- it makes you stronger. It makes you the person you are today.

What I didn’t know was that it would get a whole lot worse before it could get better, much worse than I could ever dream possible and boy I’m still dreaming.

ONE

THE PAINFUL FIRST YEARS

START

W hen I look back I realise why I found it so difficult to start this story. You see that was the trouble. I considered it as a story, I could not decide which context to write the book nor could I decide on how to portray the main character. My tale has stopped and started more times than a black cab in London on a rainy day. In order to simply get on with it as I kept telling myself, I have decided to forget how it sounds and just tell it as it was, as it is and how one day I hope it to be.

I’ve always been worried about speaking out about everything that’s happened because it always involves other people; I feel like I’m telling tales. When someone asks you to remember as far back as you can what do you say? I mean someone will always think it was selfish of you to tell the story as others may get hurt or offended, but then I try and justify myself by saying they already know the story. I often thought about writing a book about it all; I thought that by telling it again to someone else who has been through the same things they would know that they aren’t the only ones who have suffered pain and might find it easier to come to terms with their past and trauma.

I once wrote a poem called Harsh Sympathy, it made me think about how cruel people are, and then I thought that maybe they were just ‘being cruel to be kind’. It went something like

                    Many days I hope and dream,

                    My life’s background not as it seems,

                    When people cry and make a fuss,

                    I wish I could be someone else.

                    A wound gets opened each time,

                    Yet people still cry and make a fuss,

                    What has God done to us?

                    With gloves for Boxing used to soothe,

                    Digging the dirt from the open wound.

                    The more they prod,

                    The deeper it gets,

                    What have I done to deserve all this?

                    They smile and hug,

                    Then blow me a kiss,

                    Yet all I want is to be free from all this.

                    Left alone to survive the trip,

                    If they didn’t prod, smile and kiss,

                    My ways wouldn’t be down to this,

                    If they leave the wound,

                    The dirt will rise,

                    What have I done to deserve all this?

                    Maybe one day I’ll be free from this!!!!

I wrote that when I was fourteen in high school, my English teacher tried to talk to me about it but I didn’t want to know

That seems about right, you don’t like asking for help do you and you feel even worse about accepting it. I can’t decide if it still rings true years later.

I once heard a quote that a victim is a victim all his life. This may be true, but what if the victim decided to make good of what had happened? If they decided that what is done is done and maybe it has made them who they are today, good or bad. I used to think I was a victim. Now I know I am. I am a victim of society nothing more nothing less and for that now I am grateful as the American plains Indians say- it’s part of the web of life.

I was the child that was told to keep secrets; I was a child who learnt early on that if you cried you would get something to cry about. I was the teenager who knew being good was bad; admitting defeat and asking for help was a weakness. Then as a young woman I learnt in order to survive you kept up a brave face. Finding comfort in one man’s arms, meant too close for comfort for him. In another man’s arms I found the ends of his fists, in a friend asked for reassurance I found rape. As an adult I became prisoner in my own home by a man I intended to marry. I could not face hurting my parents, especially my father, we were so close and I felt that I always had a special place in his heart. With him I never had to pretend to be anyone I wasn’t and he understood me, we hung out together, played darts, I learnt about cars and woodwork generally just to hang out with him in the garage, in our safe space away from mum and my sisters and their arguments and tempers. He would pull up on his motorbike from work and I’d do a cross sign with my fingers which meant trouble so he’d nod and aim for the garage until the dust settled. The fear of disappointing my Dad was overwhelming and they probably after all they would never have believed either as Jack was the blue eyed boy next door me, so I thought the only way out was suicide. That was when I tried to drive my car into the river. This was certainly the end of one life and the start of a new one.

My dad and I fell out for the first time in my life. He was my best friend as well as my dad and it hurt so badly. Not six weeks later he died of a brain stem stroke and I never got a chance to say I was sorry. I thought of all the trouble Jack had caused and hated him even more. Not only had he made my life hell he took my Dad’s last moments away from me, for that I don’t think I would ever forgive him. But he left me with something-the need for more. I certainly got what I ordered more affection, more love, more chaos more trauma!!!

THE BEGINNING

I was only about three or four when it happened and yet I can remember it as if it was yesterday. Mum and Dad would take my Nan shopping and Grandad would look after me while they were out. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with it, he told me it was just a game we played and part of the fun was to keep it as our little secret. I wish all kids were taught that anyone who tells you to keep a secret was trouble and they should tell tales on them straight away. So many kids get told the same thing. It’s just a game; don’t tell mummy, it’s our little secret. The bastards they should all get put in a pit and bombed or better still trade the animals in at the labs and test on these parasites instead. After all leopards never change their spots, do they? Grandad didn’t just mess up my life he went through all his grandchildren and nieces.

I had no problem about not getting upset when I spoke of my grandfather it was only anger and hatred that I felt inside. I couldn’t cry even if I had wanted to over him. It was only the girls; he wasn’t into boys thank god.

Do you know what the worse thing about all of this is? Is the fact that it could have been stopped and it wasn’t! Grandad’s dead now, but my Mum knew when he was alive about what he’d done to me as a little girl. I can remember sitting in the back of dad’s car and him asking me if I’d had a nice afternoon with Grandad. I nodded innocently at him in the mirror and told him that we played our usual game.

My grandparents played Dominoes and cards for penny bets so games were perfectly normal, there was no shock in them. Dad smiled back at me and genuinely appearing interest asked what it was and did I win. I giggled and said that we played lots of special games today but no one won it they don’t work like that silly; they weren’t those types of games. He seemed puzzled, so I explained how Grandad and I played hide and seek upstairs and then he would show me his new ties and belts that Nanny had brought him during the week and I had to guess which ones were new. That was easy as the tags were on them. Then I told my dad how Grandad always got an itch in a place that needed little fingers to scratch. I scratched him better than nanny did, so that was why he always asked me to do it. We played other games too, like he would guess what colour knickers that I had on and I would tell him if he guessed right or wrong. If he guessed right, I would have to show him to prove that I wasn’t cheating. He would lift up my skirt and always touch them. Usually he would pick me up and I could jump on the bed. Then he would help me bounce and I’d fall onto my back on his and Nan’s bed. It would be his turn to tickle me then. He would tickle me from my toes up the inside of my leg which always made me laugh, and then tickle me underneath my knickers. That bit feels funny, it hurt the first time but it doesn’t any more. Then he tickled me under my top and we would start again. Sometimes he would pretend to spank me, pulling my knickers down and telling me I was going to get a smack on the bottom. I always looked like I was swimming though as I kicked my legs and my arms moved all over the place. That made me laugh, but my Dad wasn’t laughing. He had gone quiet and I could see tears coming down his face. Are you crying Daddy? I asked, No mate, its hay fever.

I wasn’t the only girl through. Years before I was even born he was up to the same tricks with my cousin’s and do you know what bit makes me sick more than anything. It’s the fact that they all went to my Mum and told her about what Grandad had done and asked her to keep their secret. My own mum knew what Grandad was capable of years before I went through it and yet put me through the same thing until I was about six. She never told my Aunt and Uncle. Grandad stayed at our house, spent Christmas’s with us and nothing was ever mentioned about it. In fact, when I asked Mum when I was fourteen about it all after doing sex education at school, she told me that it was just a dream that kept repeating itself and