Sounds (Part Two)

By Sophie Olson

(CSA. Suicidal ideation)

Sounds.

As well as men breathing and people eating, the sound of cars on a road are another trigger.

As she was assaulted inside a car that was parked in a lay-by, she could hear the swoosh swoosh swoosh of the cars drive by and as she detached from self, the child pictured the drivers of the cars, in her head. They were of course, oblivious. If only they had slowed. If only the drivers had stopped for a rest and been curious enough to look inside the car. They didn’t and she remained out of sight and invisible, but she was there and she heard each and every one of them. That day, the sound of cars of cars passing burnt into her psyche and became a trigger. She was nine years old.

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Sounds (Part One)

Sounds.

The bringer of joy and the bane of my life. I couldn’t live without music. I have extensive and eclectic playlists. I love the sounds of my children’s laughter, or the birdsong at dusk that floats through my attic window on a warm summer’s evening. I like the comforting drone of a distant lawn mower, or the fat crooning of the content pigeon, who rests in my cherry tree. Other than laughter, human noises such as the shout of man or the tap of shoe on the pavement make me deeply uneasy. The noise a human mouth makes when it chews, slurps, sips or swallows pains me. I can’t bear it. I simply cannot BEAR it. It’s an everyday painful occurrence as everyday someone eats in front of me. Not their fault of course as they need to eat, but it’s not mine either, so I’ve stopped apologising for my reaction.

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Reflections

It has been such a joy to work with Viv Gordon and her team over the last 16 Days of Activism. Seeing The Flying Child mentioned in the final slide makes me feel a bit emotional and I’m not sure why – maybe it’s because it makes everything I’m doing feel a bit more real? I believe in what I do, and when Viv asked me to join the campaign and work alongside her, it made me realise that other people must really believe in what I do too.

I’ve learnt so much, have felt supported and valued, and have even broken more of my own silence by contributing a short film in which I talk about my own abuse. It was a piece I wrote a while ago and wasn’t sure how to share it, as the blog didn’t feel quite right somehow. Reading it aloud, whilst cutting out my doll felt exactly right. I will share it on the website at some point. I hesitate, because some people I know subscribe to the blog. I need to stop doing that (hesitating).

The last 16 days has made me re-evaluate a bit. I need to make more room for creativity within my own work. My original vision for the project was to present our lived experience to professionals in a very creative way. I contacted theatre companies, artists and dance schools but it’s unrealistic to expect people to work for nothing and I had no funding to pay them at that point.

Over the last few weeks, I have met some inspiringly creative survivors. There is a lot of talking and planning going on behind the scenes. I have SO many plans. We all have so many plans. As the flying lady says in the illustration kindly shared with us by @lucybeacham @apinchofsaltsophie (you can find them over on Instagram) – “we have so much work to do…” and it is EXCITING!!

Illustration by Lucy Beacham and shared with kind permission by Sophie Ellen Powell

A Sense of Solidarity

A Sense of Solidarity was one of my contributions to Epione’s SeeMeHearMe blog a few months ago. Epione is Scotland’s largest trauma training provider. Check out the fantastic work they do here.

I have always had a thing about groups. I don’t like them, I don’t trust them. I have been wary of groups, ever since the time an eight year old girl with stocky legs and suspicious eyes accused me of laying eggs during a playground game of 4040. This was the worst crime imaginable in Year 4 in 1985. Hand on hip, she stood back to watch as 30 indignant little girls and boys formed a menacing circle and she stared unblinkingly at me as I stood in the middle wondering how the world had suddenly turned so dark. 30 shrill voices began their chant: “ Lay-ing EGGS!, lay-ing EGGS!”

It was untrue and unjust but I did nothing; I didn’t defend myself, didn’t shout, didn’t cry or tell a teacher, I just braced myself and waited for it to end.

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Unspeakable Things

By The Flying Child

I was the victim of a crime, an abhorrent act that was done to me, and to many others like me, yet when we speak about the acts of depravity that were inflicted on us, some people turn away from us.

Why?

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