It took me a quarter of a century to open up about the events at the boarding school I departed from in November 1996. During the five years I spent there, I formed no lasting connections, yet there hasn't been a single day since when the school hasn't crossed my mind.
The idea of discussing it seemed unthinkable. That chapter of my past was meant to stay buried, disconnected from my present life. I've had countless internal dialogues about it over the years, picturing myself advising my younger self, always clad in that school uniform, to maintain his silence. It never occurred to me that the one needing persuasion was not the teenager in the uniform, but the adult I had become.
Soon after coming to this realisation, my memories of the school began to focus on the events that transpired during my time there. With these recollections now released from their confinement, I had no choice but to confront them head-on. And so, I found myself fucking terrified again.
My fear is primal and intricate, that surfaces when I sense danger. I always sense danger. My fear always served as a guardian against threats to my survival. It would govern my mind and body and would be relied upon to keep me safe at far beyond me leaving that school.
It's an emotion that is not only reserved for immediate, tangible dangers but can also be brought on by the mere expectation of a threat in the future or by the contemplation of intangible concerns. Fear manifests physically—our hearts race, our breath quickens, our palms sweat, and our muscles tense up.
While I used my fear to be a protective force as a young teenager. It overstayed its welcome. My mind continued to remain on high alert, leading to me utilise fear to navigate some overwhelming feelings of shame, guilt, anxiety, substance abuse and thoughts of self-harm. This is the kind of fear I came to face and continue to experience when confronting my past at the school. I've come to recognise that the trauma I bear isn't merely about what happened to me back then, but rather the profound and lasting effects those events have imposed on my life ever since.
One of the most daunting elements of my journey, to submit a claim of injury, to claim for compensation, was the process of uncovering and then navigating a path that I knew would force me to lay bare the full extent of the abuse I endured. It was a path where every detail of my torment was not only revealed but also scrutinised and often contested by lawyers paid by the Anglican Church. This experience, coupled with the stark lack of available information on what one should expect in the role of a claimant — as someone who has suffered abuse and lived to tell the tale — sent me spiralling back into the vulnerability of my younger self.
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