I've had two short stories published, both cat related. One based on one of my rescued cats, Spudley, the other a fictional story I was asked to write for a cat newspaper. Both can be read by clicking the links below -

About my past...

I have always wanted to write a book about my life experiences, but until recently was not in a 'safe' enough place to do so. It is extremely difficult to put what I've suffered into words. Sometimes my writing flows, but it's not unusual for me to spend hours working on just one paragraph - often only to totally re-write it the next day.

Sometimes the deep seated emotions my writing taps into make me feel like I'm going to explode.

I have decided to put some of my writing online for interested people to read. There are no graphic details in what I am going to share, but please be careful as it is extremely emotional.

This first section is taken from the introduction I have written: -

The title I have chosen for this work, Little girls are like daisies, is something I once heard someone say to my mother; it has been clear in my memory ever since. I was nine years old at the time and staying at my grandmother’s house; it was time for dinner but I wanted to stay outside in the garden. My uncle Nic shouted at me to get into the house, my mother told him that he shouldn’t have shouted at me, as I wasn’t used to men shouting. Nic’s reaction was to snap back at her "Nonsense Hilary! Little girls are like daisies; when you step on them, they pop straight back up". Part of the reason I’m writing this is to show people it isn’t true, little girls are nothing like daisies and when you step on them, it hurts.

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Legal Aid had agreed to fund ten hours of interviewing in order for my statement to be taken. When the appointments were arranged Lee Moore, the barrister instructed to officially record my memories, said it would be best to spread the time over three days to make things easier for me. She also said that Keith could come with me for support, which was good. Knowing I wouldn’t be on my own made the task ahead seem more bearable. There was no need for him to take any time off work as he had two weeks leave over Christmas and New Year. We had to set off early and make our way to the village of Sarrat near Watford. It was a peaceful little place, didn’t see a single cat, Sarrat is definitely dog country. I look out for cats wherever I am, seeing one is emotionally like touching base as I’m so used to having cats around me. Lee was herself a survivor of childhood abuse and because of this she devoted her time to helping other survivors through the legal process. Lee liked her clients to know what had happened in her childhood, she thought it would help them feel more at ease. Maybe it worked that way for some people, but not for me. She seemed so strong and organised that I couldn’t see her as a frightened child - the thought of someone like her once being like me was unbelievable.

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The keyboard rattled as I talked more and more. Sometimes the words flowed freely, but as graphic details emerged they slowed to an almost complete stop. There I was, in a strange place, with a person I didn’t know, surrounded by unfamiliar objects, being forced to talk about things I had never talked about before. What was I doing?! I wanted stand up, walk out of the door and run to safety. But I was too scared to make my feelings known, so I just sat there and talked. I wanted to scream, but the only sounds that came out of my mouth were more words, more details, and more pain. All I could do was sit there and do what I was told, completely helpless and alone all over again. It took three hours and eight paragraphs to detail what Mick had done to me over the years. Only one good thing came out of that day - the insight I gained into how hard the next two days would be.

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I recalled every detail. Conrad’s broken front tooth and the gold hoop earring in Simon’s ear. The colour of curtains in the flat they took me into, their clothes, the time of day, what they said as I tried to fight them off me, how I grabbed my school pencil and dug it into Simon’s arm in a desperate attempt to get away. I did it though, I got away from them. I got out of that flat and I ran. Ran and didn’t stop until I was miles away. I’ll never be able to run away from the memories of that afternoon though.

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When I eventually arrived at the paddock, the other horses had already been turned out and their riders were waiting for me. Once Rosie was safely loose with the others horses, the other riders left - some headed home, others back to the school. As I was in no hurry to go home, I decided to stay at the paddock gate watching the horses, not expecting or wanting human company. After several minutes I noticed someone I’d met at the school earlier that day was watching me. I'd overheard him talking to the school owner so knew his name, Graham, and that he used to spend time at the school, but was now looking to join the army. Graham being there spoiled what was meant to be my quiet time, so I started walking to catch a bus home. Much to my annoyance, Graham started to walk with me. He tried to strike up a conversation, but I wasn't interested so said I was in a hurry as I didn't want to miss my bus. "I know a shortcut, come on, I'll show you." I didn't know the area very well, he seemed to know it quite well so I followed him. Nothing around me was familiar, but we seemed to be heading in the right direction so I wasn't worried. Graham suddenly stopped and said there was something he wanted to show me. There were two choices open to me, I could either walk on alone and hope I could find the bus stop, or I could continue to follow Graham and get home eventually - I decided to follow Graham and he lead me to the gates of an old church. "Come on, there's something really good in here....." I never went back to the riding school.

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Sleep couldn’t come that night, my mind was too active to allow it so I didn’t even try. I could only sit and stare into the night, feeling like I was not really there. My mind jumped from one event in my disastrous childhood to another - I had no control and the volcano inside me was growing dangerously close to an eruption. I’d had an unusual thought the night before. It was a thought I didn’t want to listen to, but a voice deep inside said it would calm the turmoil. My gaze drifted to the discarded plastic that once held four cans of beer together: As the melted plastic landed on the flesh of my forearm, the screaming inside suddenly stopped and I drifted off to sleep.

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That night started a cycle of almost ritualistic self-abuse brought on by uncontrollably intrusive memories and intense fear. My days started at about noon, sometimes later, always with fresh cuts and a hangover from the previous night. The hours passed slowly before evening crept in, then night-time suddenly pounced and the destructive part of my cycle began. The darkness brought quiet, quiet was frightening because with it came thoughts, and with those thoughts came all the memories I had struggled to keep at bay during the hours of light. I drank to try and make the darkness fade, but all that happened was a self-made downward spiral of despair and hopelessness. The despair and hopelessness lead to emotional turmoil, emotional turmoil lead to internal screaming, internal screaming lead to a desire for quiet and sleep and this desire lead me to my razor blade. I would finally fall into an unsettled sleep at about 4am and stay there until the cycle restarted the next day.

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In March 1999, over two months after my self-wounding cycle started, my self-harming almost went too far; I ended up at the emergency department having my right hand stitched back together. I had never cut my hand before, the skin wasn’t as resistant as I thought it would be; the blade cut deeper than I’d expected and I narrowly missed the vein. The female doctor was very sympathetic, not at all judgmental, but the pity expressed by her eyes made me feel like a non-person. The events of that night gave me enough of a shock to enable me to break out of the self-destructive cycle I had become stuck in. Since being awake and alone overnight had been a major factor in my self-harming, I decided to minimise future risks by getting myself into a sensible sleep pattern; I also stopped taking my prescribed Prozac as it only seemed to make me feel worse. My excessive drinking continued for many months, and some nights I stayed up later that I should have done, but never again have I misused any sharp blades.

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I had been expecting a court type room, yet the appeal room was very open and bland looking, with three or four large windows along one wall. In front of these windows was a long table where the three Board members were seated, I was instructed to sit in a chair directly opposite them. A Board employee whose job was to record the minutes of the hearing occupied the table to my right; Malcolm was seated at a table to the left of me. Of the three Board members who were dealing with my appeal, two were QC’s (Queen’s Counsel) and one was a Lord. The Lord was seated to the left (facing me) and throughout the hearing his caring and concerned looks helped me to stay calm enough to continue. The QC seated in the middle did most of the talking. He explained the purpose of the hearing and the procedure that would be followed before it started and, once things were under-way, asked most of the questions.

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It didn’t take long for the Board to make their decision, there can’t have been much, if any, disagreement between them. Malcolm had just finished saying that, in his opinion, we had lost the first claim, the second was uncertain, but we had definitely won the third, when the Board returned to announce their decision. Everyone present was required to stand for the ruling to be announced. By this time I was emotionally exhausted, and when it was announced that the CICB were to award me a lump sum for all three claims, I actually collapsed in tears. Although my claims were for financial compensation, money was the last thing on my mind at that point; they believed me! I had gone into that room with nothing but my memories, and three complete strangers believed me! My sense of validation was intense. After the ruling had been announced, the Board gave an explanation of how they’d reached their decision and, of everything that was said, one thing in particular remains clear in my mind. The Board ruled that two people are to blame for all the abuse I have suffered in my life; my mother, who they said was an unfit parent, and **** **** who, the Board say, primed me for abuse and presented me to others as an abuse subject. I’d never doubted how badly the abuse by **** had affected me, but hearing the facts spoken by someone in such an important position seemed to mean so much more.

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I had no idea of what type of reaction to expect, though deep down, and totally unrealistically, I think I wanted them to admit that mistakes had been made and apologise for any parts they played in my atrocious upbringing. Of course this did not happen. Margaret replied, deliberately using a postcard so I didn’t endure the added tension of opening a letter. I knew she would reply, though I hadn't expected her to sit down and reply straight away like she did. The postcard didn’t say much, but one short sentence said more than a thousand words could have said. That sentence was, "Thank you & bless you". Margaret had written the card very quickly, as she wanted to reply before going away for a week.

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When asked about my father, I explained that I had never met him as he and my mother had separated before I was born. My parents had moved to Australia in 1974; their relationship broke down so my mother left him and returned, three months pregnant with me, to the UK. For some months she stayed with my grandparents in Harrow, but after I was born moved to a newly built council estate in Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire; I still live in Milton Keynes, and it is where the majority of the abuse I have suffered took place. Dr. ****** said to continue by telling him the earliest recollections I have of childhood abuse. The earliest abuse I know of is something my mother said she had done, not something in my own memory – she said she’d given me half a Valium tablet when I was six months old. Apparently she did it because she wanted to go to one of the nearby bars for a drink, but I wouldn’t stop crying and go to sleep.

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Even when she wasn’t manic, mother was still an extremely spiteful person. She often told me that she wished she’d had ’that abortion’ (my father apparently wanted her to terminate her pregnancy with me) and constantly criticised and insulted me. Sometimes mother and Tony, my elder brother, would team up to pick on me; the time that haunts my memory most is when they ’played a game’ which involved referring to me as ’it’. Although I was in obvious distress, they continued with their disturbed ’game’ until they tired of it. I told her what was happening to me several times, yet she made no attempt to stop the abuse and even used emotional blackmail to make me go and suffer more. When I was thirteen, I went to her in an extremely distressed state; I couldn’t understand why so many people kept abusing me and asked her why it happened to me. She said, direct quote, "It’s your own fault for having too much sex appeal". Mother was not manic at that time. When I confronted her about it, several years later, she claimed it had been a joke. This is the behaviour mother never let anyone else see; she was sane enough to control who she allowed to see her deliberately cruel treatment of me, if it had truly been caused by her illness, she wouldn’t have been able to do that.