Hi Everyone,
"My name is Oaky Wood and I'm your new Agony Uncle here at The Corner, and yes this is really me after working all night on my computer LOL ! He He He!
Seriously when I look in my mirror this is what I see every single day, one ugly duckling that grew up into a big ugly duck! Doh! Must get a new mirror LOL! and you may well be wondering what qualifies me to be your agony uncle, and I say please read my story below and realize where I come from and my painful roots."....

You can read the story below on a new page
Click here now

NAME ...John (aka Oaky Wood)
AGE ...55...BORN...1950..OCT..12
GENDER ....Male
ORIGIN ..UK
EDUCATION ..Very Basic State ED
Self Taught and a few courses as an Adult Learner....
"Artist, Poet, Writer, Qualified Toy Maker Designer (in both wood and fabric) and a Master Craftsman is most media,  Antique Restorer, Inlayed Marquetry Designer and maker, Website Designer using Front Page & Small Businessman."

SINGLE PARENT "For the past 10 yrs"

This Is Only The Beginning Of
My Story

     I am 55 and entering the autumnal years of my life’s journey. Born in the United Kingdom, in a small mining town, in the heart of Sherwood Forest (Robin Hood Country); called Mansfield in the county of Nottinghamshire.

    I'm the eldest of six children and the only boy. My sisters and I were very close all through our childhood, for reasons that will become so very clear a little later on.  I actually watched as two of my sisters were born. Televisions were at a premium, seeing as how they had just barely been invented by Logi Baird a British inventor. Watching ones siblings being born was classed as entertainment and part of our ongoing sex education by our mother, who insisted we stood at the foot of her large wooden bed and observed everything. As a small boy it was both intriguing and quite gross all in one, a sense of excitement and disgust, but with eyes open wide enough to pop, I stood and watched, and clenched the hands of my other sisters as my newest sister, appeared into the world. The scream of life drifted throughout the house as neighbors outside cheered with excitement. A sense of disappointment then befell me as the realization dawned, oh! no not another sister. I longed for a brother. Alas this wish never did come true, the only other boy my mother had was stillborn, and I remember sobbing for days over my not to be brother, who I named James.

    My father was a big strong and muscular coal miner, who always wore the heavy miner's hobnail boots, and thick leather belt, which all miner's did seem to wear, mostly as shoes in the 1950's were still quite a luxury, as rationing was barely over from the second world war. It was a time of grime, soot covered the walls of houses, bridges and viaducts. Mothers washdays were fraught with danger as the white linen sheets were hung on the lines to dry, only to be sullied by the thick smoky emissions from the coal burning factory chimney's. Timing was so critical 4:45 pm on the dot every single day it was soot flushing time at the factories and the sky blackened with clouds of thick choking dust, only to settle everywhere it could. Windows were closed, kids kept indoors, as streets emptied whilst the air raid type sirens screeched out its warning signals minutes before. Mansfield was a dirty old town in the 50's and 60's, as were many mining towns up and down the country. I'm happy to say that the dirty image has now changed, but that's, "another story".

    Father ruled with a firm fist, a leather belt and the birch wood switch. His voice was like thunder as he bellowed out, and we all cowered before him including my mother who suffered many a beating and other abuses at his brutal reign of terror. Yet to his friends and colleagues he was nothing more than a saint. A good hearted drinking buddy and hard working miner.
    Each day we dreaded him coming home, a sense of woe befell our house, and any brief spells of childhood laughter ended before he opened the door.
    Two of my sisters had more serious reasons to fear his homecoming, and would often hide under the stairs or in the linen cupboard, away from my fathers sexual advances, tears welling up inside as they cowered away in those darkened places. Yes in today's terms my father was a  pedophile, a child molester and a bully. Using our ritual bath times at first to indulge in his perverted acts of abuse, on my naked and sobbing sisters. My mother powerless to help, could only huddle the rest of us together like a hen with her chicks.
   The many times I sat crying, and consoling my poor sisters in their pain and suffering, as their abused young bodies ached, and the floods of tears rolled down their cheeks. I was beaten into silence by my father as was my mother and other sisters. We were so afraid of this man who called himself our father.

   The abuse only stopped when he died. Oh! yes I cried when he passed away but more through sheer joy than an actual sense of loss. The words "Our Father Who Art in Heaven" read out at his funeral, rang sweet, like music to my ears as I glanced over to my mother and sisters.
   As for my sisters themselves, well they both wore smiles under their black veiled hats, I don't think anyone ever noticed, but I did and the knowing wink from one told so much, that words could never really convey. Both have been in therapy for many years since then. Have gone through countless relationships, one even having a reputation of being easy, in her quest for love. They both have had sexual experiences which no girls so young should have had to endure. 
   My mother of cause was heartbroken, even though she still carried the bruises, under her black funeral dress from a few days earlier when our loving father had beaten her for refusing him sex, his voice booming, I think the whole street heard. Yet she still cried, he was her first love, had grown up together, all a million years ago. Now she felt alone. Yes we rallied round to console her, but her deep sense of loss nearly destroyed her as she sank into depression. Her suicide attempts grew alarmingly more in number, her attention seeking was wearing thin.
   Then one day out of the blue, for no apparent reason she just snapped out of it and began to live again, but that too is "another story"

   As a young boy growing up in this abusive environment it was very traumatic, and over the years I have often withdrawn into my artwork, indulged in long hours of midnight oil burning, and suffered bouts of very deep depression and anxiety, as sometimes the ghosts do come back into my mind, and torment my sleeping hours. The waking, bathed in sweat, heart nearly beating its way through my chest, the deep sense of fear, griping my very soul, then the realization that this time, the experiences were in fact only a bad dream.

   I'd always sworn never to treat anyone like my father treated us. To be more at peace with my inner self. The images from my past etched so deep into my memory, that the scenes I witnessed are still quite vivid today as they were all those years ago.
  All of my life I've helped countless friends come to terms with abusive situations, by offering, a comforting sympathetic and understanding ear to listen, and sometimes be the missing shoulder to cry on, just like I did for my poor dear disturbed and abused sisters.
   "YES my friends this is only the beginning of MY LIFE'S STORY"

Related Pages on this site

• My Mothers Story pt1

• My Mothers Story pt2

• My Mansfield; A Brief History

• My Mansfield; Through The 50's

• Have You Ever?

• I'm A Single Parent; and male

• What Are Our Own Perceptions

Back

Bookmark our site