I choose to live

Not surprising really that a title such as "I choose to live" jumps off the shelf at me in the cut price bookshop where I am buying the remaining items for son starting at his new school.

It is sad that such books end up being thrown on a shelf in the cut price section of the already cut price bookshop but even sadder is the bundle of books, which included this one, which is supposed to be about poignant childhoods. A bundle that is supposed to raise one's spirits with a cover price of something like £56 but here for only £7.99. None of the other books in the bundle appealed anyway but I can't imagine digging a deeper hole of self-pity for myself.

Quite contrary to self-pity, is Sabine Dardenne's account of her abduction in 1996 by a rapist and murderer Marc Dutroux and her incarceration in a dank cell hidden from the world in a cellar. This happened in Belgium. Sabine was 12 years old and had been held for 80 days and 79 nights. Her poster was everywhere and large teams of people searched for her. But she didn't know that. Her captor had led her to believe that her family had given up on her and had even said there was a "big boss" who wanted to kill her because her family would not pay the ransom. So the captor played her "saviour" and gave her a choice to die or choose to live. But to live she would have to hide and he would hide her. But her choice to live is far deeper than what she was offered; it runs through the core of her. Even then, as a young child she held onto hope and certainty that she would be reunited with her family.

In the book Sabine does not talk about any of the details of the sexual abuse which I think was an excellent idea. And actually, is not necessary to know within the context of the book. Being plucked from your bicycle mid-cycle from a passing grubby van and then being drugged, whilst she is fighting taking the drugs, and then being concertina-ed up into a tool box to be taken into a house and then stripped naked and chained by the neck to a bunk bed is just the beginning of her harrowing "alternative summer holiday".

During her incarceration, Sabine quickly realised she needed routine and order. This is a twelve year old child for heaven's sake. She kept a diary and a calendar and hoped that her watch battery would hold out. She needed to tick off the days as they passed and jotted down main events such as when her abductor went away on one of his "missions". Days she spent on her own and then when he returned it was to take her upstairs to his bedroom to rape her.

Unbeknown to Sabine at the time, the year before Ductroux had two eight year olds incarcerated in the same cell but he had been imprisoned for two months for some minor offence. Ductroux was actually married and had children of his own. What's more, his wife knew of his activities and had been instructed to bring food and supplies to the girls but she said she was too scared to do so. When Ductroux returned from prison he found the girls dead (presumably from starvation) and buried them. That same year he had kidnapped two older girls (aged 17 and 19) who he had drugged and raped and then buried alive.

Usually I like to have details but I found I didn't need to know what the sexual details were, and instead found myself steaming through the book because I wanted to know what happened after she was released. It was disappointing. It wasn't a running in to the bosom of her parents and instead was a barrage of questions and not being left alone. Sabine wanted to get back her life and had to fight to get it. She wanted to do things in her way but that didn't fit in with the people around her. Her mother meant well but their relationship was not the best anyway. Her parents ended up separating but these were fault lines that were already there.

The Ductroux case had a huge impact on Belgium and its institutions. So many mistakes had been made that if they hadn't been made then a number of young women would not have been raped or murdered. Sabine's whole point of writing the book is to give her own account in order to be able to shut everyone up once and for all and to leave her alone; and to also make sure that such mistakes are not made again.

Sabine writes in a very down to earth way. She does not want to be a hero and isn't one. Her survival strategy has been to put it all behind her and not talk about what happened or the details. To anyone and especially not to any psychiatrist! Sabine went on to have a tricky adolescence but she found love at sixteen and managed to consummate her love in the apparently fumbling way that young people do. She has had a rubbish education and jobs that have not been great. Really, a quite ordinary person who deserves to be left alone and to handle things in her way.

The bits of the book that had me streaming with tears was reading her letters home during her incarceration. It is one thing reading her book written in retrospect: as an adult; but to read the words she wrote (allowing for the fact that the book has been translated into English) at the time are heartbreaking. She was told by her captor that these letters were being sent home. Incredibly, the stupid captor had allowed three of these letters to survive and had been retrieved by the police. They later became vital evidence against Dutroux at the court case in 2003 which sentenced him to life.

"I choose to live" is a great mantra.

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Scourging the sewer of my mind

It hasn't all been bad. A lovely life-long friend came to stay which meant taking a week out visiting and doing the touristy things. Catching up, laughing, smiling or having poignant moments. Then we (Mr Doris and I) attended a fascinating weekend conference.

However, after all the fun, one returns to the usual issues of life and over the briefest possible time it feels that one's life has been systematically dismantled but without any visible signs. Everyone here is alive and reasonably healthy; we have food on the table and my Mr Doris obviously loves me. So to add to the inner turmoil comes the guilt for feeling like this when others in the world are struggling to live; to eat; or even think.

I feel like a Jekkyl and Hyde character because there are people in my life who know nothing of this. In some areas I still function and say nothing. What is there to say and in any case, as much as I can be a bleeding heart there is no need for me to haemorrhage all over the joint, so I don't! I am fortunate to have some more than lovely friends who listen to me but a lot of the time I really do feel the need to hide in my shell and say nothing.

In my shell I need to scream and wail and on the whole, it is best to leave me to do that. But sometimes that shell breaks and I lose it altogether, almost. Like this week the kitchen was scrubbed like a shiny pin as the tears kept flowing amidst the occasional audible sob. Something good came of it I suppose!

And who are these beasts that need to be slain? Just the usual ones that rear their heads at times when things are a bit tough. The multi-headed dragon of failure: as a person; professionally; and most painful of all, as a parent. Now that I am "sober" again I can say that this is the most mythical of the beasts and yet the hardest to fight. There are the practical beasts of finance; house selling and buying; education of son; house-cleaning; damage and repairs; car repairs; and so on. None of these are slain but it is possible some are mortally wounded.

Speaking of death (which I do not think is such a great analogy to use above) yesterday I was driving back from an errand when a pigeon was in the middle of the road pecking at something. As they do. I slowed to give the bird a chance to fly up. As they do. But this one didn't move fast enough and as a result my car thwacked it. I felt sick to my stomach to see in my rear-view mirror the bird, a mass of feathers across the road, fluttering its last. What an awful thing I had done. If only.

Then I think of myself as that pigeon. If I don't pick myself up and get moving, instead of scrabbling around in the sewers, then maybe life will come along and deal the final thwack.

Or maybe, sometimes it is out of my control and the cards are up when they are up and that's that.

Hopefully:
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Burning Lies

Once a situation happens and lies begin to be told, it is surprising how easy it is to adapt and to slip into that web of lies as it grows and grows.

Last night, talking to some friends about the Madeleine McCann case we ended up on one of those offshoot conversations and I recalled a snippet from my life. But as the images recalled were so vivid they have been churning over in my head since and then I got to thinking about the circumstances.

It was about twenty years ago as a single woman. I walked into a local cafe wearing my biker leathers. I had a poor self image so on reflection I probably looked quite hot in my slimline top to toe black leathers. Buying my tea and two rounds of toast I went to share a table with a young chap also with some biker gear. We got to chatting, as you do, and begin a brief and torrid relationship. I do have to thank him for one particular memory of something very hot and erotic but that is quite another matter!

At that time I rode a very sturdy and rectangular old motorbike whilst he had a superbike of the day. I discovered I neither liked superbikes nor being a passenger. Being driven at 90mph on tight bends with your knees almost skimming the road is not my idea of fun. However, he had his other compensations. In those times, my life was shared between my hard-earned degree course as a mature student and a part time job for a very respectable organisation.

Unbeknown to me, early one evening, this new found boyfriend of mine decided he needed to find a way to get out of the payments on his very expensive bike and thought to write it off and make an insurance claim. So he experimented with some explosive materials, bizarrely, inside a disused building. Somehow it went wrong and he managed to blow something up, but not his bike, and set himself alight. Incredibly, he managed to douse the flames on himself, pick himself up, put on his helmet and gloves and ride over to my place in a house which I shared with a less than clean landlord. Who I am grateful to for being quite so understanding and helpful on this occasion.

Stood at the door my then boyfriend was not coherent and something was obviously wrong but I couldn't see in the dusk. There was a curious smell about him. He insisted he needed my help but that he could not, under any circumstances, go to the hospital and that I had to help. First I was to take off his helmet. Taking off one's own helmet is hard enough but to take off someone else's is a struggle. Especially when layers of their face come off with it and parts of their nose are apparently missing.

If I didn't faint then, then I could have when he insisted we removed his gloves. I don't know what was worse: seeing the backs of his hand peel off in the gloves or knowing that the less than clean sink of cold water was not the hygienic ideal environment for serious burns. By now, the guy was going into shock but was so paralytic with fear about outside medical treatment and any potential police involvement that I promised I would stay with him. And so began the lies.

In order to stay with him I'd have to be his next of kin. His wife. And we had to have a cover story for the "accident". Having agreed to all this, my flatmate and I somehow managed to walk this guy to the hospital. Now, I can't believe all this carry on and that this guy had the wherewithal to hobble to hospital in that state. But he did just that.

At the hospital I was having to answer medical and family history questions for my "husband" who I had only known weeks and barely knew his date of birth. How little I knew. I was interrogated by hospital staff as to the "accident" and managed to keep the cover going. Not surprisingly the guy was transferred to a specialist burns unit. There again I was interrogated, this time I was entirely on my own, and felt that my story was going to crack to only then get the metaphorical hand on the knee and perhaps the sorry news that my "husband" had maybe tried to commit suicide. I then have to react as the distraught, disbelieving "wife".

It sounds incredibly selfish but the moment that guy landed at my door and dumped on me like that our relationship had ended for me. I carried out the lies in order to get him through the psychological fear of getting the medical help he desperately needed for his injuries, but he soon got the fastest "divorce" in history once he had gotten over the worst of his injuries in the burns unit. Which incidentally was a three hour return train journey daily for me, slotted into studies and work. He didn't damage his bike so didn't need to put in an insurance claim and the police were never involved. I think the creditors got his bike and he went home to live with mummy.

If I saw the guy now I would happily punch him in the face and knee him in the nuts for what he put me through. The telling lies was not easy, especially when one has to start making up "facts" but it is a slippery road which is difficult to get off once started even when you are "protecting" someone else. It is surprising but some lies get easier the more often they are told that in the end I had to question myself what was reality.

Buying and selling

The whole process of selling one's house is so strenuous and takes as long as a pregnancy, or longer. We started back in January having made the decision to sell and here we are mid-way on the eighth month possibly moving towards solicitors and officialdom. Friends and acquaintances constantly assure me (as I have assured others!) that selling is one of life's most stressful events and each time I am told I hold a straight face, because I have heard it a hundred times already, and think of those last days before child birth when one is constantly asked "Isn't baby due now?".

The estate agents have been next to useless, we're on our second set of agents, and in the end our buyer has come as a result of a local leaflet drop. All my effort, and Mr Doris helping to tweak and design the wording, but no input at all from our estate agent. Someone who hadn't been on the look out for a new home has fallen in love with the place ... but sorting out his finances is taking a little longer than one would hope. In my heart I know everything will work out before too long, but it is scary. The thought of pounding the streets with the remaining leaflets I didn't post; or going back to the estate agents waiting for them to say "ner-ner-na-ner-ner yer back!", which they wouldn't, is just a little draining.

Add to this mix is that since the offer on our house we finally went looking at properties at our new destination. And found something. Small-ish but perfect and a fabulous price that we need. We are being brave and are holding off putting in an offer in case the sale of ours takes even longer. Which means their house is still on the market and available to anyone else. We can move in with family in order to cut the chain but I don't want to put in a offer and then keep them waiting. I've just calculated but our last property took six months to finalise the sale - and that was with a buyer already on board.

Someone close to me has also moved with umpteen things going wrong at the 5th, 7th, 10th, and 11th hours but they finally did it. I have had those traumas to live through as well. And....

...I was asked to follow up an Ebay bid for said person for an item they had been chasing after for a long time. They were going to be out at work at the time of the bids closing so it was in my hands, with their access details and a budget. Came the allotted time my heart is pounding out of my chest wall; my internet connection is playing silly buggers and I can't get the system to accept my one large bid. Boom, boom, boom, my heart rate was deafening. I was feeling sick and knew I was being relied on. If I lost the bidding then fair enough that would be understood but to not get the bid on at all was careless. With about 50 seconds to go the bid was accepted and was the winning bid. I kept clicking the refresh button as the seconds went down and numbers were churning all over the place and last scramble bids were placed but I still had the highest bid. Then seconds to go and bang. A bid that was just some £2 over mine was placed and the bidding ended and I lost.

Never again, I swear. The drama of running someone else's bid for an item on Ebay is just too much for my soul. Next thing will be putting in our offer for the house we want to purchase. Methinks I shall hand it over to Mr Doris and I'll hide under the cushions until it is all over.

Summer fun with the kids

Today was a warm oasis amidst this long wet summer we have been having. Such a glorious day we have had at a local park. One of those long summer days that childhood memories are made. The kids: son, niece and nephew; packed a picnic for them and me and with our simple provisions we set off.

First there was the crazy golf, and then the canoing. Each child with their own canoe, scary at first for 10 year old niece but such a brilliant confidence builder as she learned to master the canoe on the boating pond which was little more than knee deep. The park rangers walked around the pond and assisted those that needed it. Meanwhile, I'm snapping away - thank goodness for digital cameras with almost endless memory cards.

Then our picnic followed by a very long play on the apparatus whilst I lay on the grassy knoll watching them. First the three of them are playing chase and then bit by bit the numbers involved in this game increased until there were about eleven children all playing. My son, possibly the eldest, saying "hi" to new kids and asking them their name and encouraging them to play it was wonderful to watch the co-operation. Children from five to thirteen all playing together. The older ones giving the younger ones a chance. So kind and democratic.

At dinner tonight niece asked each of us what was our favourite bit of the day to which I replied it was sitting on the grass watching and thinking. Thinking about how much the kids had loved the canoes and watching niece mastering hers. Watching the world go by was such a rare pleasure. All sorts of family groups going by. A grandfather waiting by the bin for his charge to finish his ice cream and then whip out his tissue wetting it with his mouth before rubbing vigourously at the child's chin. The child grimacing as all kids do. The three generations of women the youngest of which was not that young had her three young sons with them making four generations out for a summer stroll.

The family playing chase: mum, dad and children. The two young chic women with their impossibly small toy dogs wearing tiny jackets. The Arabic family, of which the three women in their floor length black gowns billowing in the warm breeze carrying a household rug as a picnic blanket. The university students, two of whom had those running stilt thingies and when one of the females in the group put them on then she'd have a bevvy of young males around perhaps on the hope she might fall into their arms!

Happy, smiling people the whole day. Except when a child fell off its bicycle and then a concerned parent would run up and soothe away the tears. No arguing. No fighting. Just an amazing day.

After hours of playing, long after most people had made their way home we headed over to the paddling pond where the children became more wet than they should. But oh so many lovely photos of them. To dry off they ran around the now empty go-kart track pretending to be racing cars, making all the noises and a mock commentary. That was all their idea and I just stood there laughing and laughing.

Such a glorious day and one for the memory banks.