What I write comes out of trauma
I was born in Cornwall in 1948. I have lived in London for some time now.
I am a recluse. I don’t talk to journalists. I don’t do appearances.
I was sexually abused as a child. I was under five.
My abuser was my mother. She was deeply disturbed. She had been abused by her grandfather.
Amongst other things I witnessed my slightly older brother, Louis, nearly dying at my mother’s hands. When he was thirty-seven Louis committed suicide. He shot himself.
I did not know I had been abused. I remembered nothing until my late thirties and early forties. At that age I had a series of brief psychotic episodes. While I was psychotic I had involuntary, intrusive memories of traumatic childhood events. It was like being re-traumatised.
In my 50s I was finally diagnosed with complex post-traumatic stress disorder.
For several years before I retired I worked as a community mental health advocate for a local charity. I dealt mainly with welfare rights and complaints against the NHS.
I rent a room in a friend’s council flat. I rely on the state pension.
Statistically I am poor. I don’t feel it.