The Lucky One

My experience with trauma and sexual abuse

“The present, even if it is arduous, can be lived and accepted if it leads towards a goal great enough to justify the effort of the journey.” Pope Benedict XVI, Spe Salvi

A photo of the Garden of Gethsemane I took in August 2011.

For all those whose story will never be heard.

Over 4200 days ago, the night before I followed my Saviour’s footsteps to Calvary on the Via Dolorosa, like Him before me, I was given a cross I never wanted to carry. A cross that took me years to even acknowledge was mine. My faith has been tested almost mercilessly over the years, but I was never in danger of losing it. Our Lord was always there for me, always ready to listen. No matter how angry, depressed, and resentful I got, He was there, always helping me carry the cross that had crushed me for so long.

This was originally written in my journal as a letter to my mother. On the feast of my patron, Saint Marcellus of Tangiers (30th October, 2022), whilst sitting in the Chapel of St Joseph at the spectacular London Oratory, I decided I should tell a few more people. Today, 1st March 2023, on my 28th birthday, I finally finished writing it.

I’ve never published a piece of my writing, the most anyone has read of my work in the last decade would be contained to a limerick in a birthday card. I’m most definitely not a writer, rather I’m a law school dropout turned warehouse worker so my apologies for the muddled nature of this piece; it is the amalgamation of many thoughts and journal entries over the years and it has been hard to find the right words on such a sensitive issue so please bear with me. I tend to write and punctuate my work in a way that makes sense to me when I read it aloud, so if some parts seem a bit convoluted it’s because I’ve typed it the same way I’d present it orally.

I’ve deliberately left everyone nameless but those close to me will know who I’m speaking about.

What I’ve written is the true story of what happened to me on a school trip in 2011 at the age of 16 and the subsequent impact of the trauma involved. It is extremely confronting to read so please be cautious, and if you are triggered by details of sexual abuse then I urge you to avoid reading altogether.

Dealing with the trauma of my abuse has been a long and difficult process. It’s taken me a long time to acknowledge what happened to me and an even longer time to accept that it wasn’t my fault. At the time of writing, less than 15 people know the details of what happened to me on that trip, none of them know to the extent that you will read ahead, but it’s time I stopped feeling any sort of shame about it so I’m telling you all now.

To my close friends and family: I love you all so very dearly. I wish I had the courage to ask for your help sooner.

---

My Story

---

Eleven years have passed since that fateful week, yet the memories remain particularly vivid in my mind. I remember the sweet fragrance of the breeze blowing off the Sea of Galilee, the comical offer from a stranger of 100 camels in exchange for a girl in our group on the streets of Bethlehem, and the emotion I felt when a little boy genuflected before the cross as we walked the Via Dolorosa. Those events, and the incident that is largely detailed in this account are etched in my memory, perhaps more clearly than any other moment from my life.

I’ve always felt incredibly blessed for the circumstances I was raised in. Born into a Catholic family, baptised as an infant with loving parents and a home surrounded by the beautiful Australian bush. The majestic valleys seen from the local lookouts and mellifluous bird song heard from the spacious backyard of my family home have inspired a life long love of God’s creation in nature and all things outdoors. I spent countless hours playing in that yard as a child after school, often imitating what I’d read in the Horrible Histories book series by pretending to be a Greek or Roman soldier fighting off barbarian hordes - my love of Ancient Rome is what led me to choosing St Marcellus, a centurion, as my patron. As I entered the early teens it was primarily the Australian staple of backyard cricket with my older brother, which would often end up in a wrestling match and dad having to separate us. I loved my childhood and always felt so fortunate. My dad worked hard in jobs he did not like in order to provide a comfortable life for us; he would have made an excellent Benedictine monk had married life not been his vocation such is his adamant belief that “work is good for the soul.” I know some people would say my life has been a bit ‘boring’ but I was safe, sheltered, and protected. An example of which is that it wasn’t until I came to London at the age of 26, and upon wondering what the weird smell that lingered on the streets at night was, I embarrassingly learnt what weed actually smelt like.

My first real adventure in life would come at the age of 16, when I was sponsored by my Parish to attend the Diocesan schools pilgrimage to World Youth Day Madrid in 2011. It was an incredible itinerary, travelling through the Holy Land and onto Madrid to celebrate with Pope Benedict XVI and millions of other young Catholics. I was incredibly excited and grateful for the privilege given to me by my dear Parish Priest. The events of that trip and one week in particular would end up having a profound influence on my life.

On this trip there was the bishop, a number of teachers, priests, two older seminarians in their 5th years of study, and about 160 pilgrims from the Diocese, most of them students. We were very well looked after. I was on bus 4 and the 2 seminarians had been appointed to travel with our group. They were friendly enough and made an effort to talk to everyone. One of them, Red, was very engaged and had a good sense of humour. We warmed to him immediately and he became a regular social fixture on our day trips.

We started in Jordan and then onwards to the Sea of Galilee, which was really just a special part of the world to be in, with hillsides covered in olive trees, backing onto that glorious sunlit lake. We traced the early ministry of Christ, and it is still one of the most spectacular parts of the world I have visited. Being naturally introverted, I mostly kept to myself on the bus. Having grown up in mountainous bush land, I preferred looking at the landscape than chatting with the other students or napping on those longer trips. One person who I’d spoken to more than others was Red. He made his way around the bus but before long every time we boarded he would come and sit next to me. He would eat dinner in the hotel dining hall with my roommate and I most evenings and as far as I could tell, there was nothing particularly suspicious going on.

The sun shines through the clouds onto the Sea of Galilee, 7th August, 2011. Photo by me

---

If you are triggered reading about the details of sexual abuse then please stop here

---

On the last day in the Sea of Galilee, on a bus trip from the town centre of Nazareth back to our accommodation in the late afternoon, Red once again sat next to me on the bus. Nearly all the others were dozing off and he suggested we quietly sing some hymns. I’ve always enjoyed singing, despite my lack of ability, so I was up for it. We turned to the back of the little notebook we’d been given which contained the lyrics to many popular contemporary hymns. So we started singing together and at the time it felt like a lovely moment and a nice way to end a long, tiring and spiritually fulfilling day. I certainly wasn’t thinking about how providential it was that we sang the hymn ‘Open My Eyes.’ As we sat there singing, Red moved his arm that was embraced around me, and placed his hand on my thigh. I was confused more than anything, not knowing what he was doing. I didn’t think too much of it, I knew it made me uncomfortable but I didn’t wish to make a fuss and draw attention to myself. A minute or 2 later he moved his hand further up my thigh, still singing hymns with me. Then he moved his hand again, rubbing the inside of my thigh. You can imagine my discomfort.

My eyes glanced around the bus, panicked that someone might see what was happening. His hand stayed there for a few minutes still caressing the inside of my upper thigh before I lied and told him that I wanted to take a nap, at which point he kissed me on the cheek and moved to another seat. He left me extremely uncomfortable and I should have trusted my instincts and ran instead of thinking it was just something I didn’t understand. In hindsight it was clear he was taking advantage of everyone’s tiredness to groom me and test my limits.

I did my best to keep my distance on the bus, making sure to sit next to someone and staying close to the teachers at the front. I did not view him as a predator and for the most part tried to rationalise to myself that what had happened was not as bad as I thought and by reporting it I might unjustly be ruining someone’s life or getting myself into trouble. We moved on to Jerusalem the next day to begin our Spiritual Pilgrimage following the last days of Christ. The highlight for me of the week being Holy Hour in the Garden of Gethsemane, where a magnificent Church is built around the rock which is believed to be where Christ prayed on the night he was betrayed (Mark 14:32-42). If I knew what would happen to me in the following days, I can only imagine how many tears I might have shed on the very same rock that Jesus had wept on 2000 years earlier. We visited Bethlehem, the Dormition Abbey where Mary was assumed into Heaven, Mount Zion, the room of the Last Supper, and many other amazing places.

Red had been hanging around, laughing and chatting with us students as the days in Jerusalem went by. I did not distrust him and I was not afraid of him. The incident from a few days earlier was a misunderstanding as far as I could tell. On the penultimate day in Jerusalem, I was relaxing in the evening with my roommates at the hotel playing some cards when Red came by. He wanted me to come to his room so he could gift me a sports jersey he had found at a market around town. It is easy to tell myself now that I should’ve been more wary, but I was a fearless 16 year old who had been well protected from the evils in the world to that point and never would have suspected that this man was actually a sexual predator.

I went into his room and he pulled out what looked like an old Irish rugby jersey, where he might have found that in Jerusalem I have no idea. He shut the door and offered me a cup of tea which I declined. He asked me to try on the shirt and I did, but not without him commenting that I should take off my shirt first - which I did not do. The shirt fit pretty well and I thanked him for the generous gift. He again insisted I try it without the undershirt, to which I again declined to do. Then with his arms open for a hug said “come here, Sam,” to which I obliged. He held the hug for a very long time, swaying back and forth, holding me very tightly. When he finally let go he kissed me on the cheek, and moved his hands to my waist. He hauntingly told me I was a good boy, and without hesitation kissed me on the lips at which point anxiety took over and my body froze.

“A 45 year old man just kissed me, a 16 year old, on the lips?” I thought to myself in great confusion. My discomfort became obvious to Red, and again me being a naïve teenager chose not to trust my instincts to run and instead trusted the adult in the room, following his advice I lay down on the bed and took some deep breaths. I closed my eyes, steadily calming myself till I felt him touch my arm - he was sitting on the bed beside me now. He grabbed one of my hands whilst his other hand reached my thigh. I lay there still frozen, unsure of what to do or think. He then put his head down to lay beside me, before wrapping one of his legs around me. My breaths very quickly became shorter and sharper as he lay his full body on top of mine. My body still felt paralysed. He again kissed me and I felt his tongue touch my face as he let out what I would call a soft moan. I told him I should probably go and get back to my card game, and upon trying to sit myself up he grabbed my arms and pinned them on the bed telling me I cannot leave. I’d shown an obvious sign of struggle and his response was one of violence. He kissed me again, still pinning me down on the bed under his full body weight.

This would be the defining moment of my life for the next decade. As I lay on that bed, feeling the pressure from his hands holding mine down, seeing him kick off his shoes and kissing my face, I finally realised what was happening. For the first time there was no one else to protect me; not my parents, not my older brother, not my teachers, not my priest; I was alone and fighting a grown man was my only way out. He released one of my hands and reached to grab my genitals and that was my moment. I recall repeatedly saying the word “no” to him as my body shot back to life surging with adrenaline. I grabbed his hand to move it away from my genitals and a wrestling match began. He was still trying to hold me down, and I was desperately trying to get him off me. All those hours playing Aussie rules football, lifting weights, and fighting my brother in the backyard had prepared me for this moment and by God’s grace ultimately saved me. After about a minute of struggle I managed to throw him off me and onto the floor. Finally I stood up, now filled with hormonal rage and face to face with my attacker. His intentions were still clear and he ran at me to try and wrestle me back onto the bed but after a short tussle I was able to cleanly punch his cheek with a swift right hook. He collapsed to the ground holding his face and I ran.

I could have rivalled Usain Bolt such was my speed sprinting down that hallway back to my room. When I got inside I went straight to the bathroom, giving my roommate the excuse that dinner was causing me stomach problems hence the rush. After a few minutes my roommate knocked on the door, he said Red was on the phone and wanted to talk to me about the jersey. I told him it would have to wait till tomorrow as I was not feeling well. 10 minutes later I emerged from the bathroom seemingly in good spirits and resumed playing cards. I wouldn’t speak to Red ever again.

That would be the first sleepless night of many in the years to follow. I was in immediate denial about what had happened and had convinced myself that he wouldn’t have gone through with it if I hadn’t fought back. My first priority was to avoid him for the rest of the trip. Again, thinking I had done something wrong and wishing to avoid any unwanted trouble I didn’t report him. In the morning I asked my roommate to give the shirt to Red at breakfast and we began preparing ourselves to follow Our Lord’s Passion. Red had a bruise on his cheek from where I hit him and told people he had a fall.

We did the Stations of the Cross along the Via Dolorosa with Red and the other seminarian leading our group. For me, it was a deeply moving and spiritual experience and I ignored that the man who had attacked me the night before was leading us in prayer. As we walked the path of Our Lord, the scorching sun beat down on our backs and the sounds of Arabic chatter around the marketplace filled the air. A young local boy running through the narrow alleys stopped to genuflect before the cross, and then resumed running. It was a beautiful moment and such a simple expression of faith. With each step, I felt my heart grow heavier, and by the time we reached the final station, tears were streaming down my face…

Upon our arrival at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, we quickly joined the line to enter the tomb where Jesus rose from the dead. We inched forward in the line, our impatience growing with each passing moment. I recall being in ‘tourist mode’ trying to capture everything with my camera instead of prayerfully reflecting on the significance of where I was standing. When the time came to enter the tomb I put away my camera, said a little prayer and it all felt very rushed. I spent about 30 seconds inside the tiny chapel but was overcome with how amazing it was.

We moved to the Altar of the Crucifixion shortly after. As I stood before the site where Our Saviour died, I felt my heart pounding in my chest. As I gazed upon that cross, I felt a wave of emotion wash over me. As the flickering candles cast eerie shadows on the walls and the air was thick with the smell of incense, I felt in my heart that everything I believed about my faith was true. All of it. Tears again welled up in my eyes, blurring my vision, as I tried to grasp the weight of what had happened here. I felt so small and insignificant in the face of such a monumental sacrifice. I didn't touch the stone where His cross stood. For many it seemed like the only way to connect with the reality of what had occurred here. Instead, I just stood there, frozen in place, my face wet with tears. I wouldn’t have been able to find the words to express what I was feeling, but I knew it was a profound moment that would stay with me.

We went to a larger chapel for an ‘Easter’ mass in August, I was still lost in thought. I recall the Bishop's homily was quite amusing, but I barely registered it. I fished out the last of my shekels and dropped them in the collection plate. I knew I wouldn't be able to afford lunch the next day, but that didn't matter. The experience had humbled me in a way that money couldn't buy. And it helped me forget the events of the previous night, if only for a little while.

The following day we would go to the Dead Sea and then to Madrid. The 100 or so students were split from the rest of the group at this point and I would not have to see Red anymore which was a great relief. The World Youth Day celebrations were great but exhausting. By the closing Mass I had reached the point where I was excited to go home.

---

The Aftermath

---

Upon my return to Australia I went to school on the first day, having just finished 21 hours of flying. We arrived on Wednesday morning and I told everyone how much fun I’d had on my trip before going home and falling asleep at 4pm. Even though I wanted to, I decided not to tell anyone about what happened with Red because I was ashamed, embarrassed, and thought it was my fault.

The next afternoon, as I tried to settle back into my normal routine, I received a text message from an unknown number. It was Red. He wanted me to have dinner with him. This was immediately unsettling. I didn’t respond and after a few hours he texted me again, asking me if I was scared of him. Again I didn’t respond. Then the next day, a Friday, whilst I was at school I received another text from him that was much scarier than the others. He asked me, in explicit terms, if I was scared of being raped by him. Of course I was but I wasn’t telling him that. At that point there was 1 thing I was at least certain of: this man should not become a priest. I asked my parish priest if I could speak to him that afternoon to which he obliged. As part of my parish sponsorship I worked with him every Monday afternoon helping with administration of the parish and other things I could assist with. He recognised the seriousness of my request by not wanting to wait till after the weekend.

He made us both a cup of tea as I tried to muster the courage to tell him what had happened. I didn’t want him to tell my parents and made him promise me he wouldn’t. A promise I would learn he had kept when I finally told my dad about those events 5 years later. As I told him what had happened on the trip, he broke down. He had his head in his hands and wept. He apologised over and over. Like a ripple on the surface of a pond, the after effects of my trauma were already being felt by people around me. He blamed himself for what happened to me. He asked me how I was managing and I told him I was in shock but doing okay. I showed him the text messages and he became sick. He told me he would deal with it.

He took a record of my story and by the time I met with him for work on the following Monday, Red would be leaving the seminary and would be returning to his home country. I was given the assurance that he would never become a priest. We shred and burnt the notes he had taken. I again told Father that I was okay and we continued as usual. He came over for dinner and we went through my photos from the trip. After that we didn’t talk about it again; I didn’t want to, I believed I was fine. I gave a talk at my Church and School about how wonderful the trip was and that was the end of it for the time being.

Daily life resumed in September and the months that followed. I know now I was in deep denial about the fact that I had been groomed and sexually abused during this time. One thing that I had noticed was that my prayer life had greatly improved. I developed a devotion for the Rosary, grew closer with my patron Saint, and willed myself to spending more time in prayer. My family noticed that I sang hymns all the time, me singing the words of “My comfort, my shelter, tower of refuge and strength” would be constantly heard as I walked down the hallway at home. My mother even remarked at one point that she was ‘scared’ I might become a priest such was my behaviour. Life was, for the time being, very good.

In April 2012, 8 months after the events in Jerusalem, my parents announced they were separating and my life, which from the outside appeared perfect, began to unravel. I’d just begun my senior studies at school and would be staying with dad in my childhood home. My little sister would be living with mum but eventually came back to dad’s. My mental health and my relationship with my mother rapidly deteriorated. Little did I know, the trauma of my experience in Jerusalem had locked me into the notion that I was responsible for the breakdown of my parent’s marriage. My mother became the outlet for the anger, distrust, and anxiety I had let build up within me during those 8 months of denial. By August 2012, I had effectively pushed my mother out of my life.

I didn’t tell my friends or teachers that my parents had separated for a few months, again more denial. My studies suffered drastically, which is what alerted my teachers that something might be wrong, and wouldn’t recover before I finished school the next year. For me during this time, the person I trusted most was my parish priest. I could confide in him on our Monday afternoon chats. Eventually I would find another outlet. My science teacher found me crying behind a building on my lunch break one day and recommended I speak to the school counsellor which I started doing. My sessions with the school counsellor were definitely helpful but I never revealed to her what happened in Jerusalem.

I’d go on to become School Captain by the end of the school year, and by Christmas I had found myself a lovely Catholic girl from another school and started a relationship. That certainly helped my mental health. But my inability to handle my emotions or properly process the trauma I’d been through with the events in Jerusalem, along with my parent’s divorce would inevitably cause issues in our 2 year relationship.

By midway 2013 my mental health was terrible, and I had become more and more isolated from my friends and family. Having been a long time family friend, my beloved parish priest very quickly became a member of the family to dad and I. By August however, his health, which had rendered him immobile for so long, started to rapidly decline. He cancelled more and more of our Mondays together and eventually went to hospital to get better care for an infection.

He called me one day at school and had asked me to tell one of his close friends, who happened to be a teacher, that he would be moving to a different hospital. I’d later learn that this meant his condition was quickly worsening. He told me he was okay, but I could hear the apprehension in his voice as he made another request:

“Samuel, please pray for me, would you? And know I’m always praying for you”

I’d never hear his voice again…

A week later, on a Tuesday morning in early September 2013, my dad would call me informing me that my spiritual mentor and most trusted friend had died. He was 69 years old. Upon learning the news I collapsed in a puddle of tears. I told dad I couldn’t go to school that day. He held back tears as he told me how much Father cared for me, and that a family friend would pick me up for mass that morning at our parish if I liked. I didn’t text my friends or girlfriend about his death, I needed time alone. After mass, the news had spread around school and I had a flurry of messages and calls from classmates as well as teachers. I told my girlfriend what had happened and she was very supportive. Everyone knew how important he was to me, but no one, not even my dad, knew just how much.

I received an email from my priest’s sister thanking me for how much I had helped him over the years, but really I should have been the grateful one. He helped me when I needed him most and I never truly thanked him. I also still really needed him; he was my closest confidant and dear friend. I stayed strong at his funeral, but watching his coffin descend into his grave at the final committal finally broke me. His sister gave me his old flat cap he wore everyday to keep; I’ve never actually worn it as an accessory, but it’s always at the front of my wardrobe.

He’s buried beside his father and mother, who died in February 2011 and August 2012, respectively. His last years were filled with his own suffering, emotional and physical, and he carried my burden too. I’m eternally grateful for his sacrifices and friendship. I dread to think what might have happened to me had he not been there during my most dire hours.

May he rest in peace and rise in glory.

---

Then Till Now

---

My desire to study had completely disappeared as I came to the end of my schooling. I didn’t talk to my mum much, if at all, which would continue for years. My final school results were incredibly disappointing but expected. My girlfriend became my pillar of support. I would eventually tell her what had happened in Jerusalem, and again she was supportive and tried to understand. Reluctantly I’d start an economics degree in the new year. My girlfriend had a terrible personal loss during this time and I couldn’t support her. I wasn’t emotionally stable enough, and our relationship along with my prayer life, began to suffer. I was cold, distant, and often apathetic to people in my life.

After my priest died, I started having nightmares and many sleepless nights. Lying down on my bed at night brought back the memories of those hellish 5 minutes in that hotel in Jerusalem, so I started sleeping on the couch in the front room despite protests from dad. I never told him that sleeping on the lounge was a coping mechanism for me, I’d told him it was comfier than my bed and thus I was sleeping better. In the years since, I’ve intermittently slept on that couch, the new one dad bought is actually comfier than my bed, but it still provides a sense of emotional comfort too.

The 1st semester of university went well, but the 2nd, combined with ongoing issues in my personal life, was a disaster. I’d fail all 4 subjects, separate from my girlfriend, and fall into a pit of despair. By the start of 2015, my life had no direction. My self confidence had cratered, I’d barely pray, I’d day dream during mass, my relationship with my mother was non-existent, and I left university. I became more isolated and scared of the world. Gone were the days of feeling safe and sheltered; that fearless 16 year old had disappeared. In 3 1/2 years, the ripples of my trauma had become a tsunami and blown up my life.

My physical health followed my mental health by falling off a cliff. By mid 2015, I’d put on 20kgs in 6 months and lived an entirely sedentary lifestyle. I turned to video games, television, and junk food for comfort. The little boy who loved to play in the yard and enjoy nature was lost. I would go months at a time without talking to my mother and had cut out many other people from my life. My close friends from school would be the only people outside my family I spent time with. I eventually found the courage to tell one of my male friends about the events in Jerusalem during this time, but I was still incredibly embarrassed by it. When asked if I thought it still affected me, I commented that I was surprised by how little the impact seemed.

By February 2016, with the cloud of depression taking over my life, I finally asked my dad for some help. He knew I was struggling and I told him that going to World Youth Day in Krakow that year would help. He would lend me a considerable sum of money to make that happen. Around this time I also mustered the courage to tell dad what had happened between Red and I. At long last I was being vulnerable about my emotions with my father, and it only took 5 years! Again I emphasised that I was over it. Despite not having confronted many of the emotions and supressing the memories, I had at last taken a step forward to recovery.

Post World Youth Day 2016, I’d give university another serious go and start seeing a psychiatrist, which I kept a secret from everyone in my life until I had to explain to dad why I needed to borrow money again. Finally forced to confront the emotions I’d been repressing for 5 years, I began to understand the stages of grief and that my response is very common for victims of sexual assault. My initial reaction was confusion to that… “I’m not a victim of sexual assault, am I?” The kind Dr explained to me that I of course was, of an aggravated nature, which can carry up to 20 years in prison. I felt crushed hearing the pity in his voice as he uttered those words, “you were the victim of an aggravated sexual assault.” Suddenly the full weight of the cross I had been carrying since that fateful week became apparent. I would still be in public denial, but internally I felt a very heavy burden and I’d be diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and depression.

We discussed some more intimate moments of my life, where I jokingly said that my ‘first kiss’ was with a 45 year old man; deflecting with humour had become a gigantic coping mechanism. The true story I told him of course. It was with my girlfriend in January 2013, at the age of 17. We had seen “Les Miserable” in the cinema and attended a party at her friend’s house in the evening. Towards the end of the night we managed to find a quiet moment and I innocently asked “Would it be okay if I kissed you right now?”
“You don’t have to ask,” she replied. It was a romantic moment underpinned by a subconscious thought: I knew how painful it was to be kissed without giving consent and dreaded subjecting someone else to that pain. This realisation would be the beginning of me understanding how my subconscious was influencing my life.

Having grown angry and generally distrustful, I turned to video games and television, often watching the same shows on repeat. Escapism had become my way of dealing with stress. By developing “relationships” with characters on a screen, I avoided building any in the real world, and didn’t allow myself to be vulnerable. I developed a fear of physical intimacy and little things that can be so easy for others, like hugging Aunts, Uncles, and Cousins at family events became excruciatingly difficult for me. I even avoided properly hugging my little sister, instead often making a joke out of it. My natural introversion combined with my trauma had meant new social situations were overwhelming. I often felt misunderstood by those around me. On the rare times I saw my mum, I wouldn’t talk about myself, I’d find someone else to talk about and we would always meet at a neutral venue - something I did deliberately to distance myself.

During all this, I kept up the façade that everything was okay. My inner circle were aware I had some mental health issues, but they definitely didn’t know the daily agony I was experiencing. Eating out in public caused me to vomit nearly every single time such was my social anxiety and I would always use humour to deflect. I was short tempered, conceited, and deceptive to people, even those closest to me. I used my pain to inflict pain on others, as a way to try and stop anyone taking advantage of me ever again. My selfishness felt justified and that attitude permeated my routine for the next few years.

My faith suffered drastically as a result. Having again quit university, my life felt directionless. The extent of my prayer life was going to mass on Sundays and that was it. I still believed, I still wanted to be a better Catholic, I just couldn’t. With my mother out of my life, God had become the outlet for my anger. “Why me!?” I would often scream to God. I’d fall into the same patterns of sin but felt there was no way out. Out of pride I thought I could handle things myself and continually lied to convince people I was okay; a sin I still struggle with today. For a really long time, I felt completely alone.

By late 2018 on the advice of my psychiatrist, I finally decided to start taking care of my physical health again. I rediscovered my passion for the outdoors and reconnected with nature, spending much of my time exploring the magnificent hiking trails in the local area. This was wondrous for my physical, mental, and spiritual wellbeing. There were times where I would sit for hours at the bottom of those glorious valleys in the Blue Mountains, away from the noise and clutter of civilisation that I’d grown to dislike so much, and just watch the way the moss on the rocks effortlessly absorbed the steady trickle of water from above. The thriving lush tapestry of vibrant greens transforming the sharp, rough edges of the rocks into wild mossy wonderlands. It’s an easy spot to be in awe of God’s creation. In those moments, there was peace; I was the only person in the world and no one could hurt me, no one could find me down there. It felt like God had created this special place just for me.

Spending more time in the backyard became common too, I’d often try and spend at least an hour a day just relaxing on the hammock in the back corner of the yard, listening to the sweet sounds of birdsong that so often brought me joy in my childhood. I’d reminisce about all the fun I had there. Whether it be remembering cricket with my older brother, making little paper boats with my siblings to race down the creek, or pretending I was a Roman Centurion at the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest, the memories made me happy. I always believed it was a great place for a child to grow up, and it is, but to me these past years it has been so much more: it’s a portal back to the innocence that was stolen from me as a 16 year old.

Everyday when he gets home from work, dad makes a coffee, lights up a cigarette, and goes for a wander out the back. And everyday, the family dog and I would join him. We never spoke about anything too interesting, usually just the daily news, but those moments are some of my best memories these past years. Dad and I have always gotten along well, we are very similar in a lot of ways, and whilst he’s had difficulties understanding my mental health battles, he’s always tried. I know he loves that backyard just as much as I do. Dad was my pillar of support for years. Those little chats in the yard and watching the football with him on a Friday night were always the highlight of the week during those dark days. Quality time with someone you love is always a useful remedy.

The feeling in that yard is one of safety, comfort, and peace. I know it’s not about remembering the fun I had, but rather the protection and security that enabled me to thrive as a child; the kind of love every child deserves. The backyard is a reminder of the sacrifices my parents made for me and my siblings, it’s a place that reminds me of their unconditional love. And that’s a feeling that I had dearly missed and forgotten, particularly with mum, for many years. I still hope to buy that house off dad one day, but not because I’m clinging onto the past, I want my children to grow up with the same joy and opportunities I had.

By mid 2019, I was back in good physical condition, my mental health was solid, and my faith had been rejuvenated. An unexpected career path had emerged in warehousing and I loved it. My self confidence started to return and it felt like my life could resume, I even reached out to my mother a bit more. Repairing my relationship with my mother is a steady work in progress, it took me a long time to realise that whatever justification I thought I had to be angry at her, my actions were completely disproportionate and partly fuelled by pride. Things were going well for the first time in years. With growing self assurance, I even felt I could go back out into the dating world and fulfil my vocation.

Just before Covid landed on Australian shores, I was seeing a woman and having a generally pleasant time. One day, on probably our 5th date or so, ever so innocently, she touched my thigh whilst I was driving. My reaction startled her and myself, as I swatted her hand away and firmly exclaimed “Don’t touch me!” The surprise touch triggered those horrible memories of Red on the bus, and my instinct was to fight. It was something I hadn’t had to deal with in quite awhile and it was terrifying that I reacted like that. I told her that I didn’t want to be startled whilst driving and immediately changed the subject.

This interaction would become a moment of great self realisation for me and how far I’d come. Later that evening when I was dropping her home, I’d tell her, without hesitation, what happened to me as a 16 year old and why her actions triggered a trauma response. It was the first time I wasn’t scared telling someone. She asked how many people knew, “7 or 8” I replied. I remember her surprised face as she remarked about it being “too many.” As I’ve told more and more people I’ve realised this is a very common reaction. How could I possibly be comfortable with that many people knowing something so sensitive about myself? “I’ve no reason to be ashamed in telling people…I did nothing wrong,” I proudly told her. For so long I wanted to believe the world was fair, and that meant me reasoning that what had happened was punishment for something I’d done. I believed I’d been careless - that it was somehow my fault that I, a teenager, ended up lying on the bed of a 45 year old man and gave him the opportunity to attack me. It had been 8 and a half years and I’d never acknowledged the sentiment that it wasn’t my fault before, not even to myself, so saying it aloud was a significant moment in my recovery.

I’ve told 4 people since then, and every time it gets easier than the last. The most important thing though, is that internally I have finally acknowledged the truth: I am both a victim and a survivor. Despite years of denial and assuring others that "I'm okay," I now understand that what happened to me as a 16 year old will forever impact me. I have to learn how to limit the impact on others. I have to live with the fact that I didn't simply grow out of my childhood; it was taken from me in a moment that turned a fearless 16 year old who wasn’t ready to grow up into a young man who would suffer with anxiety, distrust, and resentment for a decade.

I still suffer with crippling introversion. I likely will my whole life. I’m fortunate to keep a very close group of friends that I love and feel safe around. Often when I’m out at social events I’ll sit silently and listen, rarely contributing to the conversation. People often mistake it for me not enjoying myself, being tired, or just being rude but that’s far from the truth. I’m merely deeply contemplative and enjoy listening and observing as opposed to talking, particularly around strangers. Living in a new city the past year has been a great challenge in this regard; I’ve made a few friends thankfully. Mostly though, I keep to myself, quietly singing hymns, preferring the company of the plants and birds I’m so familiar with.

It’s easy to look back and say I wasted years of my life wallowing in self-pity, but everyday was a fight. Sitting at my computer all day and clinging onto my childhood became a means of survival. I’d compare my mentality those days to taking out a payday loan: things are going to be worse a week from now because of this, but at least I can get through today. I never had suicidal thoughts, but there were times that I thought about how easy it might have been to run away from my faith, my friends, and my family. I was hurting them because I didn’t know how to process my emotions. For years I didn’t want to talk about any of this, for so long I ignored the gravity of my situation and let it negatively impact those closest to me. It was selfish of me. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you over the years, but please know that I’m trying desperately hard to be a better son, brother, and friend.

Anytime I want, I can close my eyes and remember in excruciating detail those harrowing 5 minutes, where for the first time in my life I felt helpless. It’s something I have to live with. For years, I cried alone in the dark of my room trapped with those horrific memories, having held in tears all day because I didn’t want people to think I was weak. Many victims of abuse have similar experiences and so many of us have suffered in silence for so long. None of us deserved what happened to us. At least now there is one more who will not be silent. For me, I have never wanted an apology, financial compensation, or for my attacker to be punished, I only ever wanted peace and for no one, least of all a child, to ever have to go through what I did. I’ve discovered there is no weakness in showing people who you really are, no matter how broken or fragile you may believe yourself to be. People want to help and try to understand your situation, you just have to ask them. That’s something I’ve learnt to accept these past years in great agony. Like Jesus, I need help carrying my cross.

If I knew when I was being held down on that bed the pain that I would still be going through 10 years later, I might have punched Red a few more times as he lay defenceless on that hotel floor. I might have told someone straight away and had him locked up for a decade. Maybe then, if he was imprisoned and having to feed through a straw for the last 10 years, he might understand what it’s like to feel trapped the same way I did for so long. Instead, in that moment I gave him the mercy he didn’t give me. It’s taken a really long time, and I’m sure if I ever saw him again I wouldn’t wish to speak to him, but I do forgive Red for his transgressions against me. I know I have to keep praying for him despite how difficult it is to do so. I still have photos of the 2 of us smiling together in Capernaum, and when I’ve shown them to people I always point out who he is. Seeing his face doesn’t scare me. I hope he’s used his freedom to become a better man because that is the great hope of the Catholic faith; a bad man can become a good man, a good man can become a great man, and a great man can become a saint. With God’s grace there is always hope.

I realise just how fortunate I’ve been through all this. I was lucky that the circumstances of my life meant I could fight back when attacked. I was lucky to have a priest I knew I could trust. I was fortunate to have loving parents who would provide me with the comfort and unconditional love I needed. I was lucky to have grown up in the most spectacular part of the world where appreciating God’s creation and spending time alone in nature was easy. And I was lucky that the day after I was abused, I walked with Our Lord to Calvary. Things could’ve gone so much worse for me, just as they have for so many others under the Church’s care. I truly mean it when I say: if it had to happen to someone, I’m glad it happened to me. I was the lucky one.

May God have mercy on us.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us. Saint Joseph, Terror of demons, pray for us. Saint Marcellus, pray for us.