Blame, Shame and Guilt

About The Author

Juli Flintoff is an English artist from West Yorkshire. Initially studying drama, she later obtained a Bachelor of Arts degree from Sunderland University. For several years, Juli was a successful community arts development worker facilitating workshops throughout the Bradford, Calderdale, Leeds, Wakefield and Halifax areas. After exhibiting five large banners at the Bradfords International youth event attended by delegates from all over the world, she became involved with projects for young offenders. This led her to train as a prison officer and later a drugs dog handler.

For the past 13 years, she has dedicated her life to caring for her elderly parents. Blame, Shame and Guilt is a prequel to Juli’s first publication aptly named The Secret Back Door—an inspiring book depicting the struggles of living with dementia.

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my amazing, handsome, funny, intelligent and well-grounded boys, Coban and Corai. You encompass everything in this world that is good holding the ability to inspire me daily and without your love, trust, support, belief and integrity. Blame, Shame and Guilt would never have materialised. Love you guys always and forever xx.

Copyright Information ©

Juli Flintoff 2024

The right of Juli Flintoff to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The story, experiences, and words are the author’s alone.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035835904 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035835911 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Thank you to the team at Austin Macauley Publishers for their outstanding appraisal of Blame, Shame and Guilt; it is one thing to have your work validated but to have it recognised so descriptively literally blew me away. Thank you for affirming its potential and for your continued support, guidance and expertise along the road to publication.

Thank you to my beautiful boys, Coban and Corai, who provided much support, positive encouragement, the time and space to write, along with numerous cups of tea and hot water bottles. A massive appreciation to Mary Dolan and Emma Wilson who eagerly proofread my manuscript and avidly encouraged me to pursue its publication.

Thank you to Tony Paul Gibbens and his computer wizard abilities for wiping and restoring my laptop, enabling me to write this book, and lastly thanks to you for choosing to share this journey with me.

December 2022

Chapter 1

Lois

Loud tick, low tick, loud tick, low tick that infernal noise penetrates my mind and my thoughts like a rhythmic drum. Loud tick, low tick, loud tick, low tick until it fades into insignificance and my brain dwells on a new focus. Like an antenna, I pick up the low raspy breathing of Poppy my blue roan spaniel crashed out on the settee opposite my bed. I had always been the kind of person that didn’t allow dogs onto furniture; you know what I am saying, ‘Feet are for the floor.’ However, after 11 years of loyalty, I think she has earned the right and now deserves all the comfort in the world. Suddenly, she expels a little whimper from her deep sleep of some dream she’s having, which brings an involuntary smile to my face. As I lay in the stillness of the night, I am unexpectedly captivated by the shapes cascading across the ceiling of the lights created by passing cars, driven by the people on their early morning commute to work. And so, it begins, another sleepless night.

A counsellor once told me that to get a good night’s sleep, you need to allow the events of the day to pass through your mind. To allow them to gently wash over you, to not focus on any one thing in particular for too long just to allow them to float by, like a cloud. She told me to smile at the things that I had achieved, that I had done well and had found pleasure in. However, this never worked for me as I would wrestle over each decision like the wind battling against washing clamped to its line on a blustery day.

You see, I tend to hold on tight for dear life fearful, questioning whether I could have managed elements better? Had I even done the right thing at all? Or worse still was the dissecting of a conversation then mulling over the ins and outs of it focusing upon how I wish I had responded or stuck up for myself. This is a direct result of always living on eggshells and the concern that if you say or do the wrong thing someone somewhere will blow up. It also makes a massive impact when you actually feel as though your life is not your own or you know that at some point everything you do or have done will be scrutinised. You live in a paradox of confusion knowing that unfounded accusations may be thrown at any one time and all you’re really trying to do is your very best.

This is not some layperson’s very best; this is way beyond the stratosphere of very best and it is not for any personal gain, it’s actually at a great personal cost to yourself. And so, I continue to stare at the ceiling, a familiar anxiety beginning to circulate my body culminating in the sickness now rising and only being held back by the pulsation of my heart in my throat.

I latch on to the high tick, low tick, high tick, low tick desperately, attempting to block the panic attack from reaching its crescendo, but my attempts are futile. As if to mock me of my earlier annoyance, the distraction technique merely reminds me that I have no control, either now or what future mud will be thrown. The clock continues to tick regardless. It goes on and on, breaking into the silence. I frantically switch to the mindfulness technique of concentrating on your breath but again I am unsuccessful. I try to breathe in deeply to then exhale slowly but I am only able to achieve a count of three before my breath rushes out like a newborn child whose lungs have just been cleared. The urgency increases rapidly as I fight with the overwhelming sensation of having an elephant laid across my chest. I try to calm the impending panic fighting with my focus to concentrate on my chest lifting yet it seems impossible.

Gently counting amidst the explosion, attempting to ignite, I clench my teeth to further ground my attention. I cannot breathe. It feels like I am wrestling for control with an imaginary spirit trying to prevent its possession of my body. Eventually I am able to declare to myself that I am beginning to win the battle and I subconsciously feel my body relax not realising its previous rigid state. Finally, I can just be, at which point time really does stand still as I settle into the limbo of my nightly physical and mentally exhausted state.

As I lay there in the aftermath, a single tear escapes the corner of my right eye and slowly trickles to the crevices of my neck. I do not allow myself the indulgence of another, somehow that still gives HIM control but he will never have that privilege again. So, I take a moment to reassure myself that I am ok and for now, Little Lois has gone.

The sense of loss is overpowering, so with limited choices I turn the hatred inward and there the cycle of my form of self-abuse, continues to revolve. I know that the blame, shame and guilt are not mine to bear but I endure the onslaught of my own negative words piercing my mind like an automatic rifle firing its insults. I question myself, why didn’t you speak up? Surely there was someone who would have listened. I actively search my memory banks desperately hoping to find the long-awaited answer but instinctively I know there isn’t one. Inside I screamed it out so many times, begged them endlessly with my pleading eyes, demonstrated it through extreme changes in my patterns of behaviour and inward turmoil. I didn’t say the words for there were no words I could formulate to effectively communicate what was happening to me or the level of fear that had been induced within me.

At the time, it had seemed that everyone around me had lives to live, a purpose to fulfil, places to go and friends to see. I was half the size of everyone else, in a place where no one cared, no one listened, and I had no control or say about anything. This was my family home where a traumatic experience occurred that would change me forever and that would manifest into a lifelong reoccurring nightmare of self-hatred and anger.

A sense of sadness and deep loneliness fell upon me. I am unsure whether it is for the little girl who still screams out from within me for help to soothe her pain or for the person I was destined to have become had she not been violated. A familiar tingling sensation tickles the inner parts of my nose, radiating, beginning to prick at my face as the tears accumulate and threatened to overspill my eyelids. I do not afford myself that luxury as it absurdly feels like HE wins if I succumb. Maybe my harsh inability to comfort myself reflects the consistent lack of comfort that I was given as a child. A reflection of the stunting of my early emotional development caused by childhood trauma, the affects lasting a lifetime and resulting in years of therapy that will never remove the blackness from within.

Despite Daniel lying beside me, my experience creates a cavity of loneliness from deep within. Some people may find this inexplainable, but I have found a way of filling the void by retreating into it. Here I am no longer overwhelmed but are now strangely comforted. You see if I am alone, I have no other responsibility it is only to myself. There are some people who only feel whole if they are part of something or someone else’s world yet for me, my strength is in solitude. This is my safe place where no one can get close enough to hurt me. If truth be told, I fantasise about cutting everything away and locking everyone out. A little bit like the character in Shirley Valentine, walking out to some foreign land where no one knows me.

Here, no one judges me, no one ridicules me nor criticises or bullies me. I am the truest version of myself with no false images created by people who never took the time to even care enough about me to really get to know the real person. The damaging aspect is that by locking everyone else out I lock myself in and therefore I am alone to continue my torturous self-hate campaign. This really is the perfect catch 22 of a most imperfect perfect situation.

As I lie there staring into the darkness, I am again just left with my breathing where the emphasis now is that I am actually alive, not just existing. For me, one of the worst experiences in life is to feel invisible to all those around you. I can tend to their every waking need, yet no one notices the needs I require meeting. I know I am a good person, I’m a selfless person an honourable person. I have great integrity and I give so freely and unconditionally yet I don’t love myself with the same measure as the quality and quantity that I bestow on others. Why?

The answer is simple, I was taught at a very early age that I am here to fulfil the selfish wants of others. My thoughts, feelings, needs or dreams are secondary at best, but generally speaking, non-existent to others. I am the runt of the litter, the person scorned, looked down upon, belittled and drilled into that no-one loves you, you’re not wanted. As we grow up these early teachings are not eradicated with time, they are like seeds that grow and manifest into mental illnesses, self-hatred, a lack of self-esteem, poor relationships, etc. Some people self-abuse with drugs or drink to silence their inner voices or practice the act of self-mutilation just to see the blood flow to feel alive.

For me, the worst sense of self abuse is the cycle to continually give in to the hope that you will at last be seen, cherished and loved for simply who you are. Here you physically exist in the presence of other people, but it is like you’re so insignificant you’re taking up valuable space and using oxygen better suited to someone more worthy. You may be in other people’s company, but you become so self-conscious that you don’t feel you have anything meaningful to offer or worse still, that no one is interested in anything you have to say, and you are just being tolerated.

The price you pay for this type of existence is a deep sense of nothingness where you continually feel on the outside looking in, alone without feeling. I think that’s the worst part for me, I have become the master of disconnection taking out the emotional element and running on my default mode of autopilot. To some degree it can be an emotionally mature stance to adopt when dealing with conflict, as you can step back to effectively evaluate, assess and manage situations. However, used incorrectly it has the power to deny you a positive connection with loved ones as it renders you devoid of true emotions. This regurgitating sequence is like an untrustworthy internet connection, the inconsistency affects the solidity of relationships. Therefore, I persistently retreat back into my safe place of solitude locking myself in and others out on the pretext of protecting myself when in reality it’s this pattern that causes me the greatest distress.

One of the keys to unlocking this skeleton closet is to recognise the fact that you are not alone, as the majority of people also suffer from this untruth. I concur I may not be better than anyone else, but I am an equal and as such I go out of my way to make an effective difference to the lives of those around me. I remember my friend Hazel telling me that renovating Grey Gables would be a good form of therapy for me as I would be forced to recognise my efforts and hopefully would celebrate my success rather than casting it aside and moving on to the next challenge.

She was right; in this case, I had nowhere to hide so it has been instrumental in much of my recovery although it has also caused me to face the demons of my earlier years. I recognise how far I have travelled in that I will now not hide my truth even if I have to keep on taking my rightful place at the table called life, I tell myself. You see that is the difference some people have a sense of entitlement where only their rights matter whereas I try to do what is morally right for everyone else around me. Yet no matter what I do, I am still seen as weak. It may not be the easiest of paths I concede but the humble approach with gratitude, I am convinced is more in tune with my character and the only one that I could ever comfortably walk.

I glance behind me to the clock and sigh deeply when its hands display the truth. Originally, I had woken up at 01:50 a.m. and then again two hours later; now, it’s 06.30 and I am wide awake. As the world outside continues to evolve and the world inside my home continues to sleep, I venture downstairs to make a comforting cup of tea. The glare of the kitchen lights assaults my eyes, so I take myself off to the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. At least the clock in the lounge is softer, so here I can breathe effortlessly and await the breaking of the new day.

Little Lois

Chapter 2

Moving Day

It is May 1971 and we have just moved across town to this enormous house called Grey Gables. We arrived in a small open back truck to see it for the first time. A large white wooden gate is set back to allow our entrance. There is a smaller one, this has been left swinging on the hinges it sits upon, firmly fixed into the stone, walled perimeter. The house is also made of solid stone a stark contrast to the red brick council house we have just left. The roof of the house is shallow unlike the detached built garage that sits beside it. An overlapping dilapidated dark brown fence separates us from our new neighbours. I will soon get to know them very well, they are an elderly couple who own a jewellery store in town, Mr and Mr Cronin are their names. My dog Sandy will become so accustomed to them that he will get chastised for entering their kitchen and stealing a loaf of bread.

Like everyone else, I want to run in to explore my new abode, to find my room and accept this change but I feel nervous in its presence. I have good reason to be, yet I cannot help being energised by the excited buzz of my siblings. I tentatively let go of Mum’s hand as she tries to break free in order to grasp armfuls of our belongings from the back of the truck. I instantly notice that the drive is flat at the top which then sweeps down to the left. I already know that I am going to enjoy riding my new 3-wheeler bike down there just as I had done at my old house. A tinge of sadness enveloped me as I think about my friends Neil, Karen, Carole and Louise whom I’ve had to leave behind. That is the problem, when you are a child, you have no say or choices, the adults in your life make all the decisions that affect your life and there is nothing you can do about it. Just 4 weeks and 5 days ago I had been opening my birthday gifts without the knowledge it would be the last one I would spend at the only home I had ever known.

I remembered having been led into the front room known as, our best room and there before the fireplace was a huge square, neatly wrapped present. Everyone was sat around it awaiting my arrival to open this amazing present. In trepidation, I carefully peeled back the paper to reveal a square box. Mum helped me to open the lid but as I peered in to reveal its contents, I was devastated to see the remnants of what appeared to be the broken parts of a bicycle. I was absolutely devastated and to everyone’s astonishment immediately burst into tears. There were mutterings of my being a spoilt brat, of being ungrateful but I chose to ignore them, as I always did.

After her initial surprise, Mum began taking the pieces of the bike out of the box, but I couldn’t look, I was so convinced my present was smashed beyond repair. It was only when they started putting the bicycle together did someone explain that it had been transported in pieces so that it would fit into the box. To my relief a sparkling, bright red 3-wheeler bike soon sat before me complete with a foot plate between the back wheels and a grey elephant sticker upon its white plastic seat. I was now as restored as my new bike and couldn’t wait to join my friends on the street to hurtle our way down the foot path this time using my very own bike instead of having to take it in turns between my friends. Yes, I would enjoy doing figure of eights on the flat part of this drive before peddling as fast as my little legs could go, then freewheeling down the side of this house.

I followed Mum as we entered this new place through a thick robust wooden door into what could only be described as a humongous kitchen. From the outside, this part of the house which was visible from the road was an L-shape. The cupboards in the kitchen were a pale-yellow set in a white surround, the surfaces had a grey and white Formica top. My eyes fell upon a bulky beige apparatus on the far wall which had little doors on the front of it. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. On seeing my confusion, Mum explained it was called an Aga and that it was the oven and cooker for the house.

To the right was a window overlooking the drive where our little truck was parked, with the street beyond. Straight ahead were two little steps leading up to a door where a laundry, a toilet and a pantry were, at the back of the house with a pretty little courtyard outside. To the left of the entrance was another door, deep set demonstrating the thickness of the walls of our new home, this was the door Mum led me through. As she stepped to one side to allow my entrance, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer sense of space.

In front of us was a huge bay window with an outside door to its right, at the bottom of a white staircase. This sweeping, open staircase had spindles running its entire length which were secured by a thick set banister leading to the upper level. The ceiling had two exposed beams running the full width of the room. To both my left and right were further doors leading to more rooms both having their own bay windows and with the beams continued throughout. There was a stale, smell of something old and forgotten that had been contained for far too long lingering in the room. I was therefore only too pleased to follow Mum towards the outside door which she opened to allow the room to breathe she told me. In return, the light flooded the room and brought with it a well anticipated breath of fresh air. I could not help thinking that it was not a fair exchange, although both of us were glad for it to be released out into the warm spring day.

As I step through the door, situated almost centrally to the front of the house, I am overwhelmed by the breath-taking view before me. There is a kind of storm porch held up with two posts, mounted on a terracotta tiled platform that is inlaid with white tiles displaying a thick black diamond pattern. Two steps take me down to a flagged, wide patio stretching the entire length of the house. Running parallel to this were 4 large flowerbeds displaying an abundance of coloured blooms. The beds were surrounded and defined by thick, grass borders these were then partitioned further, two on each side by a smaller flagged area sitting directly opposite the door. This will be an area I will use for hopscotch with a girl I am yet to meet. Her name is Tracy, and she lives on the crescent. We will spend hours together in sparrow park and when this is dug up and a road takes its place, we will make up games together on our bikes. She will be an important person throughout my childhood and when I am older, I will enjoy long walks with her dad.

As I explore further, I find 5 stone steps leading down to a huge lawn the size of a tennis court with mature trees surrounding it. Tracy, Ruby and I will spend our summers devising gymnastic routines here and our winters making snowmen and snow horses. We will never master the art of making igloos though we will keep trying. On this lawn, we will play British Bulldog, What time is it Mr Wolf and other games with friends from around the area. These times will be fun, but my favourite memories will be when my parents join in with us and play rounders. This week I will meet my very first friend, he will be called David and we will remain exceptionally close, he will be the only person to ever really know me and to love me unconditionally. We will spend hours climbing these mature trees, race down the hill on our bikes together, play football on the lawn and be free to explore. We will fight and fallout as children do but the invisible cord of friendship will never be broken. He will join the army at 16 and be transferred to many dangerous zones but he will take the time to ring me wherever he goes. I will later realise at these times it was when he was going out on patrol, and he didn’t think he was coming back. We will have a deep love and respect for one another that will last our whole lifetime supporting each other throughout the many ups and downs that life brings, because we are true friends.

As I turn my face towards the sun, I am instantly captivated by the sense of peace and focus on its warmth. I don’t realise how long I am transfixed to this spot lost in the hypnotic rhythm of birdsong and my inner wellbeing, but this was abruptly severed by the jolting of my siblings rushing past me knocking me to the floor. I already know it is useless to cry despite the welt forming across my buttocks and back courtesy of the steps I now lay across. Crying would not serve any purpose for there would be no offer of comfort, there would be no kind words there never are, nor will there ever be.

I am the youngest of five children and I may as well be invisible. I have two older brothers and two older sisters. Kelly is 14, HE is 12, Nick is 10 and Ruby is 8. I am Lois and I am 4. I am the child that nobody wants around, I am the child who is made fun of, belittled, put down and scorned. I learn early the art of trying to please but this is very destructive to my early emotional development, and I will soon recognise that I do not matter. As we settle in to this large, new house the bullying will intensify, because my parents cannot supervise me in all areas. I will be called Skivvy because I am the only one who recognises the magnitude of the work Mum does to keep this excessively large house. I will want to help her, feel a duty to do my bit despite my tender years.

I will be told persistently how much I am hated and that no one wants me around. That I was adopted because even my own, real mother didn’t want me. I will have it drilled into me that I was found behind the bins and that my last name is really Smith. I do not belong anywhere, I am not wanted or cared about. I will even be tormented by Ruby and Kelly that one of them has been flushed down the drain. To substantiate their claim, they will go to the extreme of taking loose hair from their brushes and will place it around the plughole. I will be plagued and tormented, it will go unnoticed, and it will be relentless. If I become distressed, I will be mocked, scorned and laughed at. If I dare to retaliate or to stick up for myself, I will be physically attacked by Ruby. Any friends I make, she will take over to exclude me because she hasn’t the ability to make her own. This will last until my mid-forties until I finally recognise my own self-worth and put a stop to it.

Maybe that’s why he chose me because he didn’t see me as a human being with feelings, thoughts, emotions or that I had any needs to be met.

I will come to enjoy their school days the most because I will be at home with Mum where I will have the freedom to play age-appropriate games. Jeff my dad will continue to work really long hours in order to pay for our extravagantly large new home. He will take the time out of his busy schedule to telephone us in the middle of the day. I will get into a new habit of racing to the phone whenever it rings as I am a big girl now so I will be allowed to answer it. I am also faster and more alert than Mum who will usually be in the middle of doing something. I know this because she will always say to Dad ‘what do you want, I was in the middle of doing something?’

I will grow accustomed to him popping in for lunch or when he gets in after work and bounces me about on his knee. It will not be very comfortable, but it isn’t nearly as bad as when he will give me some of his chin pie. This is where he will hold me really tight, then rub his face on mine after he hasn’t shaved for a few days. It will always leave severe red marks on my neck and chin because it feels like coarse sandpaper, but I won’t mind a bit because he seems to enjoy it laughing throughout. So, do my brothers and sisters, I have yet to learn that they are happy to see me hurt but also grateful that they are not receiving Dad’s chin pie.

My mum, Emmeline, will adopt the role of persistently doing chores as she will now have little time to herself. I realise much later in life these are not as pleasurable for her as they will be for me. On Mondays, she will spend the whole day doing the washing, Tuesday it’s the ironing, Wednesday the accounts, Thursday the wages for Dad’s company and Friday the grocery shopping. She will be fit to drop at the end of each day so she will sleep soundly. She will be totally unaware of my distress.

Throughout the day I will eagerly assist and love helping her to do all these things because I love being around her as this is where I feel at my safest. We will strip the beds together, I will dust, hoover and help to make meals. I will never be sure how much real help I am providing but I will believe that I am making a valid contribution. I will enjoy it the most when we do the laundry together, it will be hard work, but I will find it satisfying when I take everyone’s things to their rooms clean and neatly folded.

We will even iron together because for my birthday I received my very own ironing board. It is made of wood, it has a long, flat thin panel to drape the clothes over with a metal plate at one end, where I will put my own little iron. My mum’s iron will be plugged into a socket, I will believe mine is too but really it has a little black sucker on the end that Mum will lick and stick to the wall. I don’t notice any difference, but sadly it is not the only thing that she deceives me with, and I am not just talking about the fictional fat man, with a white beard in a red suit. I trust in her completely, because I love her, and she makes me feel secure. However, she will not protect me, no one will. These are the days that I will spend in ignorant bliss. These are those carefree days that only a child who has not yet begun school knows. The days I will spend embedded in a false sense of security in what should be the safety of my own family.

I was yet to learn that this new house wasn’t going to be a safe place for me. Here I would soon be isolated, submerged into a living nightmare, no longer carefree but where I would become a diluted version, changed forever, no longer me. I would be condemned to simply exist in their world, to suffer silently, living in a parallel universe to everyone else’s reality. I would soon come to realise that because I am the child that nobody loves, the one that nobody wants and is forever in the way, that my fate has already been sealed and I will become the target. My invisibility will make me vulnerable; my tender years will bring with it the ease to coerce, manipulate and render defeat. The lack of love, the isolation, and my age will all work against me, yet in contrast will give him a vast sense of power. He will use these facts to orchestrate situations to quench his sordid desires because I am the child without a voice.

However, children have a habit of growing up and somewhere in the future a course of events will cause a friction where a fuse will become ignited. An invisible clock will start ticking and consequently a countdown will begin. This will propel itself along until the momentum takes it to its final destination, culminating in an explosion into the adult world. Bizarrely enough, this will be created and plotted by Ruby, but she will fail to take any responsibility and will even invent accountability. The true success in giving someone else the bullets to fire is in the skill of first mastering the puppets to dance to any tune you choose