tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13975816834926034282024-03-12T19:03:26.690-07:00Losing the Hate: A Personal Memoir by Simon PalmerAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-26178482517563574792015-08-09T12:40:00.001-07:002015-08-09T12:40:23.985-07:00Was I Made, Or Am I Just A Different Demon?VICTIM OR MONSTER?
I gently opened the bedroom door trying desperately not to startle her. Judging by the sweetness of her smile, the world of dreams had clearly swept her away, and she looked utterly at peace.
I was overcome by the sheer beauty of the sleeping goddess, her incredibly long auburn hair flowing over the brilliant white pillow onto the bed
The warmth of her body beckoned me; I longed to seek comfort from the howling wind vibrating the window; a constant reminder that winter had not yet passed.
The heat from the sun seemed a far distant memory as I shivered, standing naked on the ice cold floor, convinced as I gazed down at her sleeping image that she could provide all I needed to survive.
I slipped beneath the billowy white duvet, wrapping my arms around her slender body; I could feel her heart beat as I pressed my chest against hers. Would my intrusion frighten her?
Leaning forward, I placed a delicate kiss on her cheek. Her eyes opened, the smile broadening on her lovely face as she welcomed me into her arms and I felt safe.
We kissed passionately as she drew me ever deeper into her warm embrace, igniting a fire within me when I realised that I was in love, captured and bound by a spiritual connection which had until this moment eluded me.
Without thinking I whispered the words, “I love you.”
And then she was gone, and I knew that I would never see her again.
Where am I going?
What will it be?
What is my fate?
What’s waiting for me?
Is there a purpose?
To the pain of the past?
What is the reason?
How long will it last.
Am I a man?
Or still just a shell.
Will I be loved?
Or remain in my hell.
Where is my peace?
Where is my home?
What is a life?
That’s destined to roam.
There seems to be an overwhelming desire within me to destroy my relationships, the romantic ones are no exception. And I honestly don’t know whether any of my shortcomings are a direct result of my childhood experiences, or if I’m just an obnoxious bastard.
I find it impossible to believe anyone can love me. And when I am fortunate enough to find someone, as soon as they begin to get even remotely close, my insecurities take over and I become an unbearable monster to live with, often resorting to verbal, and on a few occasions, physical abuse.
From the time I met the mother of my son, to the end of my “short lived” marriage in February of 2009, and all the relationships between the two, the demons residing within in the darkest corners of my mind have always managed to somehow rob me of the love I hunger for.
Having witnessed first-hand the love my parents shared, my desire to be in a healthy supportive relationship has always been one of my priorities. But I just don't seem to get it right. I know how women should be treated; my father set an amazing example. I don't remember him raising his voice, much less speaking harshly to my mum. And she adored him, her eyes lighting up with excitement whenever he stepped through the door. At night, while watching television, my dad would sit on the floor next to Mum's chair massaging her feet. It never looked to be a chore; he seemed perfectly content just touching her.
I'm not naïve enough to believe the relationship my parents had was perfect, but it was calm, supportive, and filled laughter.
Even my antics as a teenager failed to create enough friction to break their bond. It was them against me, which is something I resented at the time, but looking back on it now, I am envious . . . truly envious.
And I often find myself wallowing in “self-pity”, true love seems completely unattainable. My demons won't hear of it.
Despite my armour, I do manage to find myself in relationships, and they always start out great, but as my feelings grow, I become convinced I'm going to be hurt. It's never a conscious thing; it's almost as if I've been programmed to self destruct.
The venom that spills from my mouth is poisonous. I once told my “ex wife” to rot in hell with her dead mother. This is not something I would ever say under normal circumstances, but there's no telling what will set me off once I start feeling threatened.
On this particular night, I just blew up, my aggression rising to such an intense level my wife was forced to leave the house, fearing for her safety. She stayed with a work colleague for the evening, only agreeing to return the following day, once I'd promised to leave.
Feeling absolutely horrid about what I had done, and acknowledging my need for professional help, I made an appointment to see a counsellor. And being the loving person she is, my wife allowed me to move back into our home.
This woman had married me, put up with terrible abuse at my hands, and yet it was still not enough for me to realise she loved me. And it was only a matter of weeks before my next outburst.
Finally, in February of 2009, following a heavy drinking session, I hit her. And quite rightly, she decided it was time to go our separate ways. And wanting what was best for her, I reluctantly agreed.
We were married less than two years.
This is the scenario which has plagued me throughout my adult life. I seem to be incapable of accepting love, to do so feels almost as threatening as being physically attacked. My feelings for a woman seem to unleash the beast within, and no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to control my actions.
I’ve drifted through a lonely life; my participation in ill-fated relationships has always been somewhat artificial, in the sense of my inability to return the love that's offered. It truly frightens me to think there's a good chance that I will be growing old alone. Perhaps the numerous scars my assailants left on my heart have rendered me emotionally impotent, and if so . . . then they will have effectively stolen my life, not just my childhood, but my entire fucking life.
That being said, there are many people in this world who abuse others and try to excuse their behaviour by blaming the hardships they have endured. And there have been times I have resorted to this copout myself. But I honestly don’t know if my childhood has any bearing on how my personal life has turned out, or if I’m just one of those blokes born to be a bully.
Looking in the mirror is sometimes very difficult, and I truly hate myself for the hurt I’ve caused. It pains me to think there’s a whole bunch of women in the world who can only associate bad times when my name is mentioned, each of them having one thought in common; “I wish I’d never met him.”
Victim or monster? I just do not know.
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http://www.amazon.com/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1438950190&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-49436141068273088932015-08-06T10:36:00.000-07:002015-08-06T10:36:51.434-07:00Losing the Hate: The Ripple Effect - Coming Very SoonLeaving the Void
It’s a dark and lonely place,
Not a home to be,
I cannot see my face,
Or any remnants of me.
Trapped within the void,
Caged by the system,
Scared to be annoyed,
Stripped of any wisdom.
With suicide in mind,
I’m left to dine on morphine,
My fear and hate entwine,
In the NHS indoctrine
I’ve often thought of writing another book, but in truth, the overwhelming response I had to “Losing the Hate,” left me somewhat bewildered. To think that people from around the world, thousands of them, literally, took the time to reach out in support, left me dumbfounded.
I’m not saying I didn’t receive my share of criticism, but since this was exactly what I’d expected in the first place, it had little effect on me. The positive response, however, changed my life. The validation I received from my readership was completely unexpected, but what surprised me most were the genuine inquiries into my well-being.
My readers wanted more, but I was at loss as to what to write about.
Nothing would have pleased me more than writing a follow-up book, a “look at me now!” guide, show-casing my many accomplishments, and offering up a list of inspirational resources and reference points to guide my fellow victims of abuse to enlightenment.
Unfortunately, on my journey, I chose the road most frequently travelled by victims of abuse, kicking up as much dust as possible along the way.
Rather than deal than with my feelings, I repressed them. The ones I couldn’t repress I saturated with alcohol and drugs, allowing my hostility to remain tucked behind a veil of substance abuse.
“It wasn’t me, it was the drink!”
Even I knew this was a lie, but it was easier than admitting that I’d been triggered, especially, given how little it often took to set me off. Separating my behaviour from my person, and blaming it on an outside source made me, in my own mind at least, appear more reasonable and less responsible for any consequences.
I’m not the first to employ this technique, and sometimes it actually works, most especially when the people you’re trying to convince want desperately to believe you.
I’m also not the first to experience the long term result of substance abuse, and repressed emotion.
If you picked out this book as a self-help alternative, the best I can offer up is an outline of what not to do.
Although, in the past few years, I have made some progress, substantial progress in fact, and ironically it’s almost an act of rebellion. Those of you, who read my first book, Losing the Hate, are probably aware that I am rebel. Aging has had little effect on this aspect of my personality.
Aging has however, forced me to reconcile with my mortality and my body has become my prison.
Before I give you the wrong impression, let me add, my forced slowdown in the form of two heart attacks, has taken me on journeys I would have never expected. When I lost my physical freedom, I had no choice but to reflect on my past and my role in creating my present condition. I’ve also gained some valuable insights concerning both health and spirituality, which I’m happy to share with those of you who continue reading.
As I write this introduction, the book of which I speak, has yet to be written, in fact, it has no title at the moment, because in all honesty I have no idea where I’m going with this, I’m literally taking you along for the ride.
Since so many of you have expressed an interest in what went on in my life since my writing, “Losing the Hate,” I guess that’s where we begin.
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http://www.amazon.com/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1438882486&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-29993223063008743762015-08-06T10:26:00.000-07:002015-08-06T10:27:08.000-07:00An Act of Aggression (Part Two)The first few months went swimmingly well. There were no clashes between me and the other five residents, and I’d been allowed to shop for myself following my initial trip with Caz. Even the relationship with my family was back on a fairly even keel.
As soon as the time came for me to leave school everything changed. Between what the state paid me and my food allocation, I was receiving £35 a week. After paying £4.50 board and lodging, the rest of the money was my mine to spend.
I began to drink heavily and it wasn’t long before I made friends who were keen to sell me as much cannabis as I could afford. As my drug and alcohol abuse grew, the unemployment money was no longer enough to cover the lifestyle I’d become accustomed to, and I became very aggressive towards the staff at Kingfisher.
To make my money go further, I started drinking very strong lager with a volume of 9%, only
Returning home when I was out of drink or spoiling for a fight.
The more the staff tried to understand why my behaviour had taken such a dramatic turn, the more I rebelled against them, threatening to run away or smash up furniture. When my threats centred on violence towards whichever staff member I was arguing with, Bill informed me that they’d been instructed to call the police, telling me my adverse behaviour would no longer be tolerated.
The anger inside me continued to escalate and my alcohol consumption remained astronomically high. Feeling unable to release the tension coursing through my veins, I started to self harm in a manner which never happened before; taking kitchen knives to my forearm and really cutting myself in a disturbing way. I’d butcher my arm, hacking rather than cutting, causing gaping wounds that pumped rather than oozed blood. The hatred I’d often shown towards others was now turning inward; and my greatest wish was that death would take me away.
Things got so bad I was being taken to the local hospital two or three times a week to be stitched up. The casualty staff demanded an explanation as to why I was being allowed to hurt myself whilst still under the supervision of council care workers.
It was decided all the kitchen knives were to be kept under lock and key, and if I needed to peel some spuds or cut some meat, it would be done for me, but short of locking me up, there was pretty much little else they could do. Caz continued to try and help. She was genuinely concerned, but I really didn’t have any
interest in sorting things out. The self destruct button in my head was now activated, and there was little anyone could do to help.
As well as self harming, I reacquainted myself with sniffing glue only now I no longer did it privately, thinking nothing of sitting in the communal lounge with my “bag,” waiting for a reaction. When none came, I was more than happy to just get high, revisiting the euphoric world which had welcomed me only a few years before.
I remember one situation in particular, when I pushed my luck to its limits with the officer in charge. His name was Malcolm, a very experienced social worker, being in the job for over ten years. I’d decided to glue sniff in the lounge, desperate to create an argument with him.
Sure enough it was only a matter of minutes before he entered the sitting room, demanding I hand over the bag of Evostick. I told him to fuck off; and he did. Thinking I’d won the battle, I strutted into the kitchen, where another member of the staff was making a hot drink. Proud of my apparent victory, I boasted, “he’s a fuckin’ good social worker aint he? Couldn’t even get the glue off me, wanker.”
The residents present looked at me in disbelief, and the staff member, a black guy called Les, smiled at me and simply said, “D’you want to talk about it Simon?”
I paced around the dining table, inhaling the bag of glue, laughing hysterically between breaths, knowing I looked insane.
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-19915250099682901352015-07-28T08:08:00.005-07:002015-07-28T08:08:50.775-07:00Trusting a Monster
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<b><span style="font-size: 16pt;">IN THE FLAT<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8CeCdF7Kfi4/TycSKmTuGPI/AAAAAAAAAu4/i9ZMSPs--Dk/s1600/Palmer%252C_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8CeCdF7Kfi4/TycSKmTuGPI/AAAAAAAAAu4/i9ZMSPs--Dk/s320/Palmer%252C_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover.jpg" width="200" /></a>As soon as I entered the lounge of the now all too familiar
flat, I knew something bad was about to happen. My body felt like it was
wrapped in invisible chains, and I smelt fear. my own fear. It was as though
the atmosphere pulsated with such intensity that it grabbed me, shaking my
flimsy little body, flaying my limbs in all directions, like some pathetic rag
doll. <o:p></o:p></div>
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God, I was so terribly scared.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ropeman left me alone while he went to the kitchen to sort
out our drinks. The sight of the beer made me shudder, and the muscles that
didn't tighten, twitched instead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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A dark and gloomy, musty smell,<o:p></o:p></div>
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A place no warmer than a prison cell,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Strange thoughts enter into your head,<o:p></o:p></div>
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You now start wishing you were tucked up in bed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A frightening chill shoots through the air,<o:p></o:p></div>
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All you do is stand and stare,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s a place with an eerie feeling,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Your heart by now is really speeding.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sepulchre,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sepulchre,<o:p></o:p></div>
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What a place,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Your heart is beating a rapid pace.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That awful chill is slowly rising,<o:p></o:p></div>
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All you think of is surviving,<o:p></o:p></div>
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But as you try to run and leave,<o:p></o:p></div>
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You can’t help thinking your eyes deceive,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Lurking in that gloomy doorway,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Is something that’s come out of doomsday,<o:p></o:p></div>
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You try to move, but are stuck to the spot,<o:p></o:p></div>
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You try to scream but breathing…, you’re not.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sepulchre,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sepulchre,<o:p></o:p></div>
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What a place,<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s now your home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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To my relief, after handing me a beer, Ropeman slid the
video cassette into the player, and we settled down to watch the film I was far
too young to see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to
concentrate, but I was conscious of his every move; my muscles tightening at
the slightest twitch. It was an exceptionally good summer, so when<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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he asked if I was hot, I replied with a simple yes,
pretending to be engrossed in the film. But I knew in fact, every cell in my
naïve young body sensed danger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when
he suggested I might be more comfortable if I removed my top, the fear
enveloped me to the point of numbness, and before I knew it, there I was,
stripped to the waist again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It wasn’t long before the second stage of his sick plan was
being put into action. “Shall we stretch out a bit? After all, there’s plenty
of room,” he said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt like a rat
caught in a trap, knowing there was no way out; no one was going to be knocking
at the door and saving me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Is it ok if I use the toilet?” I asked the question merely
as an escape, something that would give me a bit more time, however limited it
might be before the inevitable happened. Ropeman stopped the tape and directed
me to the bathroom. <o:p></o:p></div>
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On returning to the lounge, I noticed that he’d removed his
top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was sprawled across the whole of
the sofa, smiling, beckoning me to join him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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What choice did I have?<o:p></o:p></div>
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With a great deal of apprehension, which I’m convinced he
was aware of, I did as I was asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After awkwardly positioning myself into place, he began cuddling me from
behind, pulling me closer before stroking my chest. Within seconds I felt his
arousal in the small of my back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without
success I tried to ignore the feel of his sweaty fingers by losing myself in
the movie. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Try as I might . . . and I did try, going so far as<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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to close my eyes and picturing myself saying the words, but
somehow I couldn't summon the courage to tell him to stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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My silence was deafening, and the sound of his erratic
breathing all but consumed me, before I fell away.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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You touched me,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Held me,<o:p></o:p></div>
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And stroked my chest,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Told me that you,<o:p></o:p></div>
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My teacher knew best.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I felt your hardness,<o:p></o:p></div>
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In the small of my back,<o:p></o:p></div>
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I had a chill in my spine,<o:p></o:p></div>
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When you said I’d be fine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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“I’ve always felt sorry for you, what with you being adopted
and everything.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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“It really is a pleasure to teach you”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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“You’ve had a hard start to your life haven’t you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Try to relax a bit more, you feel so tense. I won’t bite.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These were some of
the things he was saying as he fondled me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I didn't respond. Instead, I closed my eyes and waited for the nightmare
to end, ironically finding solace in the chaotic sounds blasting from the
television.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After what seemed a lifetime, the movie finally came to an
end. I eventually found the courage to say that I wanted to go home. To my
astonishment my molester agreed, but he made me drink some strong coffee first.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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An hour later I was in the safety of my bedroom, alone and
isolated, but safe, unaware of the horrors that were waiting for me in the not
too distant future. </div>
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<o:p><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434501971&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate">http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434501971&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate</a></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434502375&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate">http://www.amazon.com/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434502375&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate</a></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p> </div>
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<o:p></o:p> </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-75096329980695845772015-07-27T11:27:00.007-07:002015-07-27T11:28:23.186-07:00I Hurt So Many People. . . <br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 16pt;">MY SON<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<st1:date day="6" month="8" w:st="on" year="1988">6th August
1988</st1:date>. <st1:time hour="22" minute="50" w:st="on">10.50pm</st1:time><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Lewisham hospital, <st1:place w:st="on">South London</st1:place><o:p></o:p></div>
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8CeCdF7Kfi4/TycSKmTuGPI/AAAAAAAAAu4/i9ZMSPs--Dk/s1600/Palmer%252C_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8CeCdF7Kfi4/TycSKmTuGPI/AAAAAAAAAu4/i9ZMSPs--Dk/s320/Palmer%252C_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I intended to be the best father in the world. The love I
felt for him the instant he was born was something I had never experienced
before . . .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and nothing has overwhelmed
me to that degree since. Apart from the actual birth, one of my fondest
memories of the evening was when Julie, with our baby cuddled in her arms, said
to me, “Come and meet your son.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
In my mind’s eye, I can still see his little screwed up
face; the sound of his first cries in the world still ring in my eardrums.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And once I held him in my arms all that
mattered was the love I felt for him, and I vowed in earnest to protect the young
beautiful life I'd helped create. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
And I failed him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aside from going to
work, I put absolutely no effort into providing my child, whom we had named
James, a loving family environment. In fact, all I managed to contribute was
pain and heartache. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
While Julie was busy at home looking after baby James, I
continued my drunken nights out down the pub, having affairs with young dolly
birds, spending what should have been my son’s money on buying them drinks and
cigarettes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
The physical abuse towards his mother became more and more
horrendous by the day, but I believed it was justified; it was I who was the
one being hard done by. When I think of the times I used to slag Julie off to
my parents, claiming she wouldn't even bother to cook for me and ranting about
her inability to keep a clean house embarrasses me to this day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I was an evil young man with no feeling for anyone but
myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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One terrible occasion will always stick in my mind. It was a
Sunday afternoon, Julie and I had decided to go to the local park where there
was a bit of a fete taking place. And so, with James in the pushchair, we
walked the short journey to the celebrations. We’d arranged to meet a friend of
ours, Laura, at the main entrance, and intended to make a day of it, strolling
around the various stalls.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
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We had not anticipated that there would be a beer tent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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“Look. There’s only a fuckin’ bar.” I exclaimed, already
shoving my hand in my pocket, hoping I had enough cash on me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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‘‘D’you have to,” asked Julie, rolling her eyes, “you’ve got
plenty of cans back home; we won’t be here that long.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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I glared at her, “Shut the fuck up.” And with that fond
farewell, I disappeared into the crowd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Pushing my way to the trestle table, I waved a ten pound note in the
air, franticly trying to grab the barman’s attention, as if my very life
depended on it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Getting very impatient, I leaned as far across the makeshift
bar as was physically possible and shouted for service; more than a few heads
turning in my direction as I did so. The guy behind the table finally looked at
me, an expression of total contempt etched on his face, but he served me just
the same. After paying for the glass of cloudy beer, I scanned the area to see
if I recognised anyone. My body froze, and the glass I was holding threatened to
shatter under the pressure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
Ropeman, fuck me, it was Ropeman!<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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The first thoughts entering my mind were extremely
violent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would take no effort at all
to drive my glass into his throat; to twist and turn it until every last drop
of his poisonous blood drained from his lifeless body. I imagined a
bloodstained corpse sprawled on the grass; saw myself kicking and punching the
putrid remains until the police arrived and arrested me for the cold-blooded
murder of a “respected” schoolteacher.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Finding it very difficult to contain myself, I walked
towards him, not quite knowing what I intended to do. He began smiling that
same old pathetic smile of his, trying to look as if he was happy to see me,
but I <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
saw through him; the look of terror apparent in his <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
soulless eyes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
At the last minute, my thoughts reversed. It wasn't fear,
far from it; in reality I could easily snap his neck. For whatever reason, it
became more important that he see, despite what he’d done, I had survived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although this was far from being true,
outwardly it would appear I was doing well. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“Hello Simon, I don’t believe it. How the devil are you?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ great, you?” I gulped at my drink<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“Not too bad, I’m teaching at a different school these days,
the pay rise helps too.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
(And how many little boys’ lives have you destroyed since
working there?) <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
It was clear he didn’t want to talk, as his next sentence
confirmed, “Anyway, it’s nice to see you, but I must get on. You look after
yourself, ok?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Tilting my glass in his direction, I nodded goodbye and he
was gone, leaving me every bit as empty and violated as the last time I'd seen
him all those years ago.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I needed another drink.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
After downing four or five pints of real ale, I decided to
go in search of Julie and Laura; feeling an immediate need to be free of the
crowd which was suffocating me from all directions.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
And my anger was rising.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I don’t know you,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
An’ you don’t know me,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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Get out of my way,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Just leave me be.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I’ll tear you apart,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Limb from limb,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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An’ all the while,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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I’ll imagine you’re him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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Give me an excuse,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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An’ I’ll destroy you’re life,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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Slash your throat,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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Kill your wife<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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Stamp on your head,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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‘Till your skull caves in,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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An’ all the while,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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I’ll imagine you’re him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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Murder you all,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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An’ imagine you’re him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
It wasn’t long before I was pushing through a throng of mums
and dads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone busy laughing as
their children ran around screaming and shouting with delight at the many
sideshows on offer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
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And my anger’s still rising.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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After completing two circuits of the madness and mayhem
surrounding me, I decided to go back to the beer tent; thinking they may have
been trying to find me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
And my anger was rising.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“Simon. Over here!” They were sitting on a bench outside the
toilets.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“Where the fuck do you think you’ve been?” I bellowed,
causing people to look in my direction for the second time that day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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The finale of that terrible afternoon saw me kick my child’s
pushchair over, and punch Julie in the side of the head twice; my son was in
her arms at the time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
As if that wasn’t bad enough, once I’d returned home, and
with my temper still raging, I completely trashed the lounge, destroying
everything I could get my hands on, which included James’ toys.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
If I’d heard of someone else acting in such a despicable
manner, I would have had one simple word befitting such a person; scum. Anyone
in their right mind knows behaviour like that is beyond unacceptable, it is the
lowest of the low, and there are no excuses to defend such horrific actions.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I’ve not been in James’ life since he was four years old,
and it hurts me far more than any of the evil acts I was subjected to. I've
missed out on so much; kicking a football in the park, helping him with
homework, enjoying the look on his face on Christmas morning . . .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>so many lost years, times that no amount of
wishing can bring back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Often there are simply no second chances. This is something
I've found out the hard way; the way I discover most things, by fucking them up
beyond belief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
And in truth, when it comes to James most especially, I'm
not deserving of a second chance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What
bothers me most is that my son is paying the consequences for my selfish
acts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was the one cheated, and I got
exactly what I deserved. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
On numerous occasions I’ve taken steps to find my on, but I
always seem to come up against a brick wall.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
However, if I’m truly honest, I certainly could’ve done
more, an awful lot more. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I miss him so terribly much.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434502375&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate">http://www.amazon.com/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434502375&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate</a></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434501971&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate">http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434501971&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate</a></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-76382837684198931092015-07-27T11:21:00.000-07:002015-07-27T11:23:01.327-07:00Easier to Hate<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 16pt;">DRUGS, DRINK, AND SELF LOATHING<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
The first few months went swimmingly well. There were no
clashes between me and the other five residents, and I’d been allowed to shop
for myself following my initial trip with Caz. Even the relationship with my
family was back on a fairly even keel. <o:p></o:p></div>
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8CeCdF7Kfi4/TycSKmTuGPI/AAAAAAAAAu4/i9ZMSPs--Dk/s1600/Palmer%252C_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8CeCdF7Kfi4/TycSKmTuGPI/AAAAAAAAAu4/i9ZMSPs--Dk/s320/Palmer%252C_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
As soon as the time came for me to leave school everything
changed. Between what the state paid me and my food allocation, I was receiving
£35 a week. After paying £4.50 board and lodging, the rest of the money was my
mine to spend.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I began to drink heavily and it wasn’t long before I made
friends who were keen to sell me as much cannabis as I could afford. As my drug
and alcohol abuse grew, the unemployment money was no longer enough to cover
the lifestyle I’d become accustomed to, and I became very aggressive towards the
staff at Kingfisher.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
To make my money go further, I started drinking very strong
lager with a volume of 9%, only<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Returning home when I was out of drink or spoiling for a
fight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The more the staff
tried to understand why my behaviour had taken such a dramatic turn, the more I
rebelled against them, threatening to run away or smash up furniture. When my
threats centred on violence towards whichever staff member I was arguing with,
Bill informed me that they’d been instructed to call the police, telling me my
adverse behaviour would no longer be tolerated. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
The anger inside me continued to escalate and my alcohol
consumption remained astronomically high. Feeling unable to release the tension
coursing through my veins, I started to self harm in a manner which never
happened before; taking kitchen knives to my forearm and really cutting myself
in a disturbing way. I’d butcher my arm, hacking rather than cutting, causing
gaping wounds that pumped rather than oozed blood. The hatred I’d often shown
towards others was now turning inward; and my greatest wish was that death
would take me away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Things got so bad I was being taken to the local hospital
two or three times a week to be stitched up. The casualty staff demanded an
explanation as to why I was being allowed to hurt myself whilst still under the
supervision of council care workers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
It was decided all the kitchen knives were to be kept under
lock and key, and if I needed to peel some spuds or cut some meat, it would be
done for me, but short of locking me up, there was pretty much little else they
could do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Caz continued to try and help.
She was genuinely concerned, but I really didn’t have any<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
interest in sorting things out. The self destruct button in
my head was now activated, and there was little anyone could do to help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
As well as self harming, I reacquainted myself with sniffing
glue only now I no longer did it privately, thinking nothing of sitting in the
communal lounge with my “bag,” waiting for a reaction. When none came, I was
more than happy to just get high, revisiting the euphoric world which had
welcomed me only a few years before. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I remember one situation in particular, when I pushed my
luck to its limits with the officer in charge. His name was Malcolm, a very
experienced social worker, being in the job for over ten years. I’d decided to
glue sniff in the lounge, desperate to create an argument with him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Sure enough it was only a matter of minutes before he
entered the sitting room, demanding I hand over the bag of Evostick. I told him
to fuck off; and he did. Thinking I’d won the battle, I strutted into the
kitchen, where another member of the staff was making a hot drink. Proud of my
apparent victory, I boasted, “he’s a fuckin’ good social worker aint he?
Couldn’t even get the glue off me, wanker.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
The residents present looked at me in disbelief, and the
staff member, a black guy called Les, smiled at me and simply said, “D’you want
to talk about it Simon?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I paced around the dining table, inhaling the bag of glue,
laughing hysterically between breaths, knowing I looked insane.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“Simon, you don’t need that stuff,” continued Les, “why
don’t you come into the quiet room and have a chat?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I begrudgingly followed Les, doing a shit job of imitating
his swagger for the benefit of no one in particular.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“Fuck it, what d’you want me to talk about then?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Unbeknown to me, Malcolm had called the police, and just as
I handed Les my bag, two officers came running towards me. I legged it through
the lounge and out the back door, making it halfway across the garden, before
being caught. A torrent of abuse flew from my mouth and I began to kick out at
my captors. They managed to get the handcuffs on me and I spat in their
faces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“You bunch of fuckin’ pricks, get yer fuckin’ hands off me
you dirty cunts!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I was frogmarched out of the building and shoved into the
back of the van, with Les following.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Calm down Simon,
we’ll get it all sorted out at the police station. Don’t worry, it’ll all be
fine.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Deptford “nick” was a mere stones throw from Kingfisher, and
so it was only a matter of minutes before I found myself sitting in the custody
suite. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Following a search the cops also found a small quantity of
cannabis in my jacket pocket, together with some “poppers,” (amyl nitrate). <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I’d discovered poppers a few months prior while browsing one
of the many adult shops in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>’s
<st1:place w:st="on">West End</st1:place>. The arresting officer took the
substances<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Away and I was left sitting with Les on a bench running
along the back wall of the room. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“What’s up mate? You’ve really got to sort things out buddy,
why d’you keep doing these things to yourself?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I was crying.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I was scared.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
And I hated me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“I just fuckin’ hate myself Les, just wanna fuckin’ die.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
My voice was raised and a few of the policemen milling
around glanced over, probably concerned I was going to kick off again. But Les
carried an air of confidence, it was clear he had things under control, so they
refrained from intervening. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
When Les instructed me to stay put and left, the minutes
seemed like hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was convinced they
were going to charge me for possession at the very least, if not resisting
arrest, and in all honesty, that's not what was bothering me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was more concerned that my stay at
Kingfisher was in jeopardy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Finally, Les returned together with the arresting officer.
It was decided I would only be cautioned, but it was made clear, next time
would definitely be a different story. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434502375&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate">http://www.amazon.com/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434502375&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate</a></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434501971&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate">http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434501971&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate</a></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-49781527728602827002015-07-27T11:12:00.004-07:002015-08-06T05:51:08.669-07:00An Act of Aggression (Part One)<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 16pt;">THE ROAD TO KINGFISHER<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Morris was not to blame. He was just unlucky enough to be in
the wrong place at the wrong time, and I was there waiting for him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
It was a Friday afternoon. I’d stopped caring whether I’d be
put away and wagged school with Sean. We sniffed glue most of the day, and
returned to the school at home time, hoping to find someone who’d “donate”
their cigarettes to us. Poor old Morris came bounding around the corner, nearly
knocking me over. You could see the fear sweep across his face, his mouth
moving but no words coming out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“Hello wanker, got any fags?” I asked, widening my eyes in
an attempt to scare him even more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8CeCdF7Kfi4/TycSKmTuGPI/AAAAAAAAAu4/i9ZMSPs--Dk/s1600/Palmer%252C_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8CeCdF7Kfi4/TycSKmTuGPI/AAAAAAAAAu4/i9ZMSPs--Dk/s320/Palmer%252C_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“No, I, I smoked ‘em all at lunch.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“Fuck off.” I took a step closer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“I haven’t! I smoked ‘em all, honest!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I took hold of the lapels of his blazer, “Bollocks, don’t
lie to me you little prick!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“Leave me alone, Si’, I aint got none!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I punched him full in
the face. He let out an agonising cry as his nose exploded. Blood and tears
began to stream down his cheeks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
When he fell to the ground, I began brutally kicking
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He curled into a ball, attempting
to avoid the swing of my boot. Morris was howling like a baby. With every kick
I delivered the faces of Ropeman, Stuart, and Karen, flashed in my mind; and
the clearer the pictures became, the more violently I kicked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I could hear my name being called, but it sounded as if it
were somewhere in the distance. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“Fuckin’ hell, Si’, leave him! You’re gonna kill the
fucker!” I heard Sean's voice; no longer off in the distance, but shouting
directly in my ear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Somehow Sean managed to drag me away, tears now pouring from
my eyes as well. We ran down the hill and across the road at the bottom,
franticly dodging cars like frightened rabbits. With Sean still clutching my
arm we sped down an alley and into the garden of a derelict house, my
adrenaline pumping and the anger still very much in control. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“What the fuck did ya do that for?” I shouted, still readied
for confrontation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“Bollocks, Si’, you’d have killed the poor little cunt!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I grabbed Sean by the collar and pulled his face close to
mine, “You ever do somethin’ like that again, I’ll fuckin’ well do you, an’
all, d’you understand me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I let go of him and he fell to his knees, still gasping for
air after all the running we’d just endured. Sean knew better than to argue
with me, therefore nothing else was said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
We left the garden and peered around the corner; everything
seemed quiet, so we casually began walking down the road. I asked if we were
going to meet up on Monday morning, the usual place, at the entrance to the
cemetery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He nodded, before turning on
his heels, and we went our separate ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I never saw Sean again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434501971&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate">http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434501971&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434502375&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate">http://www.amazon.com/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1434502375&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate</a><br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-18428494869647333812015-05-14T08:13:00.002-07:002015-06-06T05:28:48.503-07:00The Photo Shoot<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vXCAwXIWTCU/VVS7RFkP_QI/AAAAAAAACao/usf0UGNTW2c/s1600/222857_10150180676862208_1172473_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vXCAwXIWTCU/VVS7RFkP_QI/AAAAAAAACao/usf0UGNTW2c/s320/222857_10150180676862208_1172473_n.jpg" width="200" /></a>The next day at school Ropeman asked me if the following
Saturday would be okay to take the photographs. I told him that would be great
and excitedly ranted about how much I was looking forward to doing them. He
patted me on the shoulder and smiled, saying that if at all possible I should
bring a few items of clothing. When I asked what it was I should wear, he
simply replied, “Whatever you look good in.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After what seemed to be an absolute lifetime, Saturday
morning finally arrived and I was ready and waiting outside the school gates,
clutching a carrier bag my mother had filled with various items of clothing. It
was only a matter of minutes before Ropeman pulled up in his car, beaming his
usual smile and gesturing for me to get into the front seat, “Morning young
man, you all set and raring to go then?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You bet,” I answered, “I got some jeans an’ T-shirts, Mum
ironed me school uniform an’ all.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Excellent, lets rock an’ roll then.” He seemed to be as
excited as I was, explaining that we would be doing the shoot at his flat,
saying it made more sense since his equipment was stored there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The drive only took about twenty minutes, and as I got out
of the car an unfamiliar sound of gravel crunched under my feet. A huge
Victorian house seemed to peer down, almost beckoning me with it’s large
“window-eyes,” inviting me to enter it’s mouth; and as I continued to gaze at
the sheer magnitude of the building I felt his hand rest on my shoulder, “It’s
not all mine I’m afraid.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I looked up at Ropeman, I noticed he was almost
beaming, a smile plastered across his chubby face. Without hesitating I smiled
too, still feeling fortunate and tremendously excited.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We walked side by side across the drive, up the enormous
stone steps and entered the gigantic front door. Any onlooker who may have happened to glance
our way could easily have mistaken us for father and son. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Inside was an unexpectedly small hallway with a winding
staircase leading up to the first floor. Ropeman gestured me towards an inner
door opposite the stairs. He led me down
a narrow passageway that opened out into an impressive lounge. The room was
littered with bookcases, but my eyes were immediately drawn to the lighting and
tripod that dominated the centre of the living space. Ropeman left me alone while
he sorted out some cold drinks. When he
returned I could hardly believe my eyes; he was carrying two glasses of beer. I
put the glass to my lips and took a huge mouthful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You take your time with that young man; there’ll be hell to
pay if I take you home tidily.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was ten years old.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He suggested that we begin straight away and I was told to
sit on the sofa, ignoring the camera as best as my excitement would allow.
Maybe about six or seven shots were
taken when, as cheerful as ever, Ropeman asked me to take off my top. He explained that it would add to the image
of me relaxing at home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The request made me feel quite embarrassed, but ignoring the
sudden wave of apprehension sweeping over me, I agreed and removed my T-shirt. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A dozen or so more pictures were taken before we took a
short break. He offered me more
beer. We chatted about school and what I
got up to during the evening with my friends, Peter Simpson and Mark Milner.
They were also his students, and the thought crossed my mind how envious they
would be when they found out I had spent the day at Ropeman's home, drinking
beer no less.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once the small talk was all but done, he piped up with what
was quite obviously the next part of his elaborate plan, “What do you think of
stretching out on the sofa, as if you were asleep? Think you can do that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, be easy,” I said with false bravado as another wave
of apprehension took hold.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it was there, as I lay on the settee that my journey
into hell began. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember feeling as though a thousand eyes were staring at
me; and at that moment I truly hated the camera more than anything in the
entire world.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Ropeman instructed me to pull my jeans up as far as
they would go, my young mind had no idea that the next shot would be centered
on my private parts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Minutes later my photo was being taken with me wearing
nothing but my underpants, again, pulled up as far as they would go.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take it away, take it away,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smash it or burn it, that Saturday.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tear it and rip it,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take the memory away,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I long to forget that Saturday. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Leave me, leave me, and leave me alone,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No more photos, just take me home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t give me smiles,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An’ I don’t want your beer,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t ask me to strip,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t fill me with fear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hate you, I hate you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You horrible man.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I often wonder how many lives may have been destroyed by my
silence, how many tears were shed because I did not have the strength to tell
anyone what he’d done to me?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes, when my
mind travels back to those horrific years, reliving the anguish and torment,
desperately trying to understand why he did those things, I wonder if my fear
of speaking out indirectly sealed another child’s fate. When, stripped to the
waist, while standing in the middle of his lounge with nothing but my briefs
on, was I helping to lay the blueprints of someone else’s future? Sealing
another young person's nightmare at the hands of a vile and twisted creature? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know that in the cold light of day, I’m in no way to blame
for anything, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling these emotions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
God, how I wish that my silence hadn’t been quite so damned
silent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Taken from the book, Losing the Hate).</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>UK Link</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1366466148&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>US Link</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>http://www.amazon.com/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_2_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374466131&sr=1-2</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-39206304397848749252014-06-17T07:43:00.002-07:002014-06-25T12:06:43.610-07:00Received This Awesome blog Review<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KOBUgu2gjg8/U6BTmamHwdI/AAAAAAAABRA/HtBUsLbpkWA/s1600/222857_10150180676862208_1172473_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KOBUgu2gjg8/U6BTmamHwdI/AAAAAAAABRA/HtBUsLbpkWA/s1600/222857_10150180676862208_1172473_n.jpg" height="400" width="250" /></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.790000915527344px;">This is Simon's own story - in his own words - of the horrific abuse he suffered from the age of ten, and the consequences it had on his life. it is a shocking, no holds barred account of how his life was changed forever by a teacher he trusted, and respected and who should really have known better...</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.790000915527344px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.790000915527344px;">This was emotionally brutal. I have just finished it for the second time and I am a limp rag of emotion. There are brutal scenes, brutal language and brutal emotions. All these serve to tell the story though, a story that must have been difficult for Simon to revisit, but ultimately cathartic for him. The injections of Simon's poetry in between chapters served to catch a glimpse into the person he was at the time. I hope others who have been through the same horrors have the courage to speak out after reading this. In Simon telling his story hopefully others gain courage and not allow the hurt and horror to control their lives and choices.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.790000915527344px;">http://wistfulskimmiesbookreviews.blogspot.co.uk/2014/06/losing-hate-by-simon-palmer.html</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-66948122325904372852014-05-30T05:21:00.004-07:002015-06-06T05:30:16.338-07:00Losing the Hate: Forward (Written by Claudia B. Modie)<div class="MsoNormal">
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<b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">FORWARD BY CLAUDIA B. MODIE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">(AUTHOR OF HYBRID)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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As a mother of three boys, I have experienced the impulse to
lull myself into a false sense of security with regards to sexual abuse. After all, it's girls who are most at risk
right? </div>
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Statistically this appears to be the case; however, since
boys are less likely to tell, these statistics are somewhat skewed and far from
reliable.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zUiLCe-MVPw/U4h3r_obd0I/AAAAAAAABQs/ZWtPT_8or6o/s1600/222857_10150180676862208_1172473_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zUiLCe-MVPw/U4h3r_obd0I/AAAAAAAABQs/ZWtPT_8or6o/s1600/222857_10150180676862208_1172473_n.jpg" width="200" /></a>The sad fact is our children, regardless of sex, are being
exploited. It happens in our places of
worship, our schools, and most disturbingly in our very own homes.</div>
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No amount of money, physical location or parental vigilance
for that matter, can shield us from the predators lurking in the human
jungle. These hunters are not motivated
by survival; they prey on our children merely to satisfy their own perversions. And until we declare open season on these
vile sub-humans, our children will remain at risk. </div>
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I came across Losing the Hate on a website, which enables
writers’ to critique one another. As is
common, I planned on reading a few chapters, making my comments, and moving
on. Instead, I read it in one afternoon.</div>
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Never having experienced such an emotional reaction to a
book, my need to reach out to the author became a compulsion, and I acted on my
instincts. We became fast friends, and
despite his living in <st1:country-region>England</st1:country-region>
and my residing in <st1:country-region>America</st1:country-region>,
not a day has passed since without our speaking. The <st1:place>Atlantic</st1:place>
has only managed to separate us in a physical sense.</div>
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I only mention this because, other than the seven years it
took Sye to write Losing the Hate, I have been privileged to share his journey
in the evolution of this work. </div>
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There have been many frustrations on the road to getting the
book to its present state, primarily because it is difficult for Sye to
re-visit the horrific events of his past, but there have also been other
emotional issues to contend with. </div>
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Not long before publication, Sye received a critique in
which another author accused him of having "enjoyed" his abuse, even
going on to say, "he was just afraid to admit it." These comments
were made by a woman who wrote a memoir on her experiences with incest. And although her words were hurtful and
ignorant, they did serve to clarify the importance of bringing this book to
print. </div>
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If these attitudes are so deeply ingrained that even victims
of sexual abuse "blame the victim," belittling their suffering based
on gender, only serves to perpetuate continued abuse. </div>
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In fact, we may inadvertently be placing our male children
at greater risk by making them a more appealing target. Especially when the likelihood of being found
out is lessened by the stigma attached to admission.</div>
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We have to allow boys to feel they will be equally supported
in these appalling circumstances.</div>
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Men must be encouraged to speak out without being accused of
"enjoying it," or for fear of being falsely labelled homosexual.</div>
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I am extremely proud of Sye for having the courage to make
Losing the Hate public. </div>
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<b><i>To continue reading please click on the links below:</i></b></div>
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http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1366466148&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate</div>
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http://www.amazon.com/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_2_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374466131&sr=1-2</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-17296978994381977792013-11-25T14:14:00.000-08:002014-03-22T10:51:55.208-07:00An e-Book by Simon Palmer<span style="background-color: white; color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Losing the Hate by Simon Palmer; a true account of how child abuse changes a person and destroys entire families. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Read how - at the age of ten years old - my entire world plunged into the dank cellars of hell, at the hands of my school teacher.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">You can download Losing the Hate at amazon, (links below), for just £0.98 / $0.99, or if you prefer, order the paperback via amazon, or pick it up from all major outlets in the High Street.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">UK</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1366466148&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">US</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">http://www.amazon.com/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_2_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374466131&sr=1-2</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-67054285659886609972013-04-16T09:36:00.001-07:002014-09-03T09:35:40.804-07:00Losing the Hate eBook: Simon Palmer: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1345890328&sr=8-1">Losing the Hate eBook: Simon Palmer: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-04SQNYAevZ0/VAdDLxAWz4I/AAAAAAAABcg/Yg8AuaYY-dw/s1600/222857_10150180676862208_1172473_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-04SQNYAevZ0/VAdDLxAWz4I/AAAAAAAABcg/Yg8AuaYY-dw/s1600/222857_10150180676862208_1172473_n.jpg" height="320" width="200" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VRtJ6_JWNPs/UW19nf6zJyI/AAAAAAAABBs/vquQdXAaTcE/s1600/Palmer,_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a>A true story of survival - read how I battled for almost 3 decades to try and come to terms with what my abusers inflicted me to at the age of 10 years old.<br />
#losingthehate<br />
<br />
UK (79p - limited price - RRP £2.99<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1366466148&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate">http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1366466148&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate</a><br />
<br />
US 99c - limited price - RRP $2.99<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_2_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374466131&sr=1-2">http://www.amazon.com/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_2_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374466131&sr=1-2</a><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-76593759115029351492013-04-16T02:41:00.001-07:002013-04-16T02:41:28.062-07:00Losing the Hate By: Simon Palmer - eBook - Kobo<a href="http://www.kobobooks.com/ebook/Losing-the-Hate/book-WStFw62R1EKq1OMEB9w7PA/page1.html?s=XO0iZX7EcUSYXg2oEzbx8w&r=1">Losing the Hate By: Simon Palmer - eBook - Kobo</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-67555140870316173342013-04-16T02:38:00.001-07:002013-04-16T02:38:46.473-07:00Losing the Hate (eBook) by Simon Palmer 9781466004931 | WHSmith.co.uk<a href="http://www.whsmith.co.uk/eProducts/Losing-the-Hate+eBook+KB00105166393#.UW0cF1EfuaU.blogger">Losing the Hate (eBook) by Simon Palmer 9781466004931 | WHSmith.co.uk</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-10282979559450744572012-10-02T05:15:00.000-07:002012-10-02T05:15:05.760-07:00Selling My Soul
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jHCBYzLyAKg/UGraJqcwK6I/AAAAAAAABAE/49Q42E30Ie8/s1600/Palmer,_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover_(Amazon).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jHCBYzLyAKg/UGraJqcwK6I/AAAAAAAABAE/49Q42E30Ie8/s320/Palmer,_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover_(Amazon).jpg" width="200" /></a>The last thing I had expected was to put myself in yet
another precarious position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I
wasn't a young lad anymore, I was now close to Ropeman in size, and he was far
too physically unfit to actually threaten me. Besides, in my mind, I was a thug, a real tough guy, so I
hadn't counted on reverting back to being a ten year old in his presence, but
that's exactly what happened. Insecurities flooded my mind as the memories
mercilessly taunted me. It was almost impossible for me to look at the man's
face; but the die had been cast. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And for some reason,
I couldn't bring myself to call it off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It seems incomprehensible now, but I still wanted that damn tattoo,
eventually selling my soul to the devil to get it.<br />
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The events resulting from my actions that day are among my
most difficult memories to deal with. For the large part because it was my own
doing, I have no excuses, and I could not offer up an explanation if I
tried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I instigated it, and that shame will follow me to the grave.
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There are times when my heart is riddled with hatred and
utter contempt, when I want to strike out and get my revenge. I crave that
retribution, and pity myself for the lack thereof.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there have also been many dark, very
drunken nights when I detest the face staring back at me from the mirror,
knowing, that at least in my view, the reflection is not completely innocent.</div>
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US Link</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1">http://www.amazon.com/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1</a></div>
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UK Link</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1">http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1</a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-38657678540253232012012-09-05T08:23:00.000-07:002012-09-05T08:23:06.004-07:00The Second Visit (Sensitive Content)<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bd52kvxr5rU/UEdt9KU5IYI/AAAAAAAAA_k/hJ4orl3zhyA/s1600/Palmer,_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover_(Amazon).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bd52kvxr5rU/UEdt9KU5IYI/AAAAAAAAA_k/hJ4orl3zhyA/s320/Palmer,_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover_(Amazon).jpg" width="200" /></a>I hadn’t made any arrangements for the following day, and as
I took the short walk from my front door to Stuart and Karen’s house, the
apprehension that swept over me was almost suffocating, as was the fear that
violently churned in the pit of my stomach. </div>
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Sleep had, surprisingly, greeted me fairly quickly the night
before; my mind had not yet fully digested what had happened. But as I neared
the destination, inching my way forward, my head became awash with the
frightening details of the encounters I'd had over the last couple of years. </div>
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The photo sessions with Ropeman, the sexual contact Stu had
subjected me to; I began to wonder if it was all part and parcel of normal
adult life. But mostly, I was scared of them.
Afraid that if I didn't show up, one of them would say something to my
parents about what had taken place. And
truth be told, I was terrified. Stu
frightened me more than anyone I'd ever met.</div>
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Karen opened the door and gave me a warm smile. It wasn’t
the sickly smile of Ropeman, nor was it the twisted grin I’d seen on Stu’s face
the previous day, but I still felt an almost irrepressible urge to smack the smile
clean off her face. She was evil; not nearly as intimidating as Stu, but evil
just the same.</div>
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I walked past her and strutted into the lounge, my blond
spikes erupting from my skull in all their glory. “Alright Stu.” he looked up
from his paper, his bright blue eyes seemed to sparkle, and for the first time
I noticed just how scarred his face actually was.</div>
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Karen came up behind me, I felt her hand on my shoulder, and
“Don't I get a kiss then"?</div>
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I didn’t know where to look, much less what to say. I’m not
sure if it was visible, but my whole body felt as though it was physically
shaking. I tried to make a joke of it and simply kissed her on the cheek,
quickly rubbing my lips with the back of my hand and pretending to be sick,
mimicking the actions of a four or five year old child.</div>
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After sitting on the sofa, I asked Stuart if it was okay to
turn on the CB, which was on a small table between where I was sitting and his
armchair. “Leave it off for the minute,” he replied, “maybe we’ll put it on
after a cuppa.”</div>
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Before I could do or say anything else he told me to stand
in front of him, telling me I was wearing my studded belt all wrong. I did as
was asked, and he began rubbing my crutch.</div>
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UK Link</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1345890328&sr=8-1">http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1345890328&sr=8-1</a>
</div>
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US Link</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1_bnp_1_kin?ie=UTF8&qid=1345890179&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate">http://www.amazon.com/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1_bnp_1_kin?ie=UTF8&qid=1345890179&sr=8-1&keywords=losing+the+hate</a>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-51490997660534662342012-08-23T04:50:00.002-07:002012-08-23T04:50:50.942-07:00A Step Into Hell
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zUA3PDFPoU8/UDYYTv8qPVI/AAAAAAAAA-w/M2UE5NhdbaA/s1600/Palmer,_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zUA3PDFPoU8/UDYYTv8qPVI/AAAAAAAAA-w/M2UE5NhdbaA/s320/Palmer,_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover.jpg" width="200" /></a>As soon as I entered the lounge of the now all too familiar
flat, I knew something bad was about to happen. My body felt like it was
wrapped in invisible chains, and I smelt fear. my own fear. It was as though
the atmosphere pulsated with such intensity that it grabbed me, shaking my
flimsy little body, flaying my limbs in all directions, like some pathetic rag
doll. </div>
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God, I was so terribly scared.</div>
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Ropeman left me alone while he went to the kitchen to sort
out our drinks. The sight of the beer made me shudder, and the muscles that
didn't tighten, twitched instead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
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<o:p> </o:p>A dark and gloomy, musty smell,</div>
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A place no warmer than a prison cell,</div>
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Strange thoughts enter into your head,</div>
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You now start wishing you were tucked up in bed.</div>
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A frightening chill shoots through the air,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
All you do is stand and stare,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
It’s a place with an eerie feeling,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Your heart by now is really speeding.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Sepulchre,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Sepulchre,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
What a place,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Your heart is beating a rapid pace.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
That awful chill is slowly rising,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
All you think of is surviving,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
But as you try to run and leave,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
You can’t help thinking your eyes deceive,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Lurking in that gloomy doorway,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Is something that’s come out of doomsday,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
You try to move, but are stuck to the spot,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
You try to scream but breathing…, you’re not.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Sepulchre,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Sepulchre,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
What a place,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
It’s now your home.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
To my relief, after handing me a beer, Ropeman slid the
video cassette into the player, and we settled down to watch the film I was far
too young to see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to
concentrate, but I was conscious of his every move; my muscles tightening at
the slightest twitch. It was an exceptionally good summer, so when<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
he asked if I was hot, I replied with a simple yes,
pretending to be engrossed in the film. But I knew in fact, every cell in my
naïve young body sensed danger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when
he suggested I might be more comfortable if I removed my top, the fear
enveloped me to the point of numbness, and before I knew it, there I was,
stripped to the waist again. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
It wasn’t long before the second stage of his sick plan was
being put into action. “Shall we stretch out a bit? After all, there’s plenty
of room,” he said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt like a rat
caught in a trap, knowing there was no way out; no one was going to be knocking
at the door and saving me. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“Is it ok if I use the toilet?” I asked the question merely
as an escape, something that would give me a bit more time, however limited it
might be before the inevitable happened. Ropeman stopped the tape and directed
me to the bathroom. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
On returning to the lounge, I noticed that he’d removed his
top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was sprawled across the whole of
the sofa, smiling, beckoning me to join him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
What choice did I have?</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
With a great deal of apprehension, which I’m convinced he
was aware of, I did as I was asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After awkwardly positioning myself into place, he began cuddling me from
behind, pulling me closer before stroking my chest. Within seconds I felt his
arousal in the small of my back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without
success I tried to ignore the feel of his sweaty fingers by losing myself in
the movie. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Try as I might . . . and I did try, going so far as<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
to close my eyes and picturing myself saying the words, but
somehow I couldn't summon the courage to tell him to stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
My silence was deafening, and the sound of his erratic
breathing all but consumed me, before I fell away.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
You touched me,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Held me,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
And stroked my chest,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Told me that you,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
My teacher knew best.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I felt your hardness,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
In the small of my back,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I had a chill in my spine,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
When you said I’d be fine.</div>
<br />
<br />
UK Link<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1345722589&sr=8-1">http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1345722589&sr=8-1</a><br />
<br />
US Link<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1">http://www.amazon.com/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-29205450813825959562012-08-10T06:13:00.003-07:002015-06-06T05:31:07.275-07:00Why Didn't I Run?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
After
that incident, I should have run, hit the pavement and screamed from the
rooftops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should have told anyone
willing to listen what they had done to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Most especially my parents, I should have gone to them, but I couldn't help
thinking that if no one believed me, it would only make things worse. I’d
inevitably have to disclose the past events with Ropeman, and coupled with the
way I’d been behaving over the last few years, I was sure I’d be looked upon as
a fantasist; just another lie from the strange mind of Simon Palmer.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What's worse, I was utterly
convinced if I continued to keep my silence, and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>refrained from going back to Stu and Karen’s,
they would almost certainly come looking, and that thought terrified me most of
all.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Apart from keeping all this to
myself, I was confronted with another dilemma. What was I supposed to tell my
friends? They were used to my being around and to suddenly disappear without a
trace, how was I supposed to deal with that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Confusion was rapidly seeping into
my world; and combined with the fear which was paramount
within me; my behaviour at home fell to an all time low, school remaining a
complete non event. The truancy became so much of an issue that the authorities
assigned me a social worker, who in turn, suggested my parents agree to me
seeing a child psychologist.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<o:p> </o:p><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Numerous opportunities to tell the
official bodies presented themselves, but I steadfastly remained silent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lies continued, and so did the abuse.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Peter Simpson, along with Mark Milner, two of the greatest
friends anyone could have asked for, began to see less and less of me. On the
rare occasion when I did see them, it felt like something had changed, like our
friendship was over; we no longer had anything in common, or so it seemed. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-5997360442731955712012-07-17T06:42:00.000-07:002012-07-17T06:48:39.799-07:00A State of Euphoria<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2fEd4jzhZG4/UAVslhVpcaI/AAAAAAAAA9o/JMSuQRSVh94/s1600/Palmer,_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover_(Amazon).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2fEd4jzhZG4/UAVslhVpcaI/AAAAAAAAA9o/JMSuQRSVh94/s320/Palmer,_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover_(Amazon).jpg" width="200" /></a>My school suspension was lifted exactly one week later and
things carried on much the same as usual. I continued to be the mixed up
problem child who no one had any time for (except for the love that my family
continued to offer), swearing and cursing my way through life. When my form
tutor told me the lunchtime music practice had been revoked, I saw a green
light for truancy.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Accompanied by the drummer of my band, Sean Watson, most of
our days were spent reeking havoc on the infamous Ferrier estate in Kidbrooke.
When we tired of throwing stones at people’s windows, we’d steal large
quantities of milk off the milkman and hide ourselves high up on the balconies,
pouring it on unsuspecting passers-by as they walked through the many rabbit
warren type pathways. We would often collapse in uncontrollable fits of
hysteria as our victims tried in vain to apprehend us.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One particular afternoon saw us both have a crack at
shoplifting, our target being a local hardware store, hoping if nothing else,
we’d get chased by the manager. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Sean created a distraction by talking to the man about a
Saturday job, while I committed the actual theft. </div>
<br />I grabbed the first thing that my trembling hand rested on
and slipped the object into my blazer before silently walking out of the shop
to the freedom that eagerly awaited me. I was about to cross the road when the
sound of heavy footfalls boomed behind me. Spinning on my heels, I expected to
come face to face with an irate shop manager, but to my relief it was Sean,
“What is it? What did ya nick?”<br />
“Fuck knows.” I put my hand into my pocket and pulled the
mystery object out; it was a large tube of Evostick.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
A short time later, we were crawling through the tiniest of
gaps behind a low-level car park, and very oblivious to the world that
surrounded us; we introduced ourselves to the fine art of glue sniffing.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I cannot speak for Sean, but for me it was the most awesome
thing I’d ever done. It completely transformed the way I thought; there was no
pain or fear, and I felt no sadness whatsoever. The make-believe world I had so
often dreamt about began to flourish, enfolding me within all its glory.</div>
<br />Crisp blue skies,<br />
A sun so bright,<br />
Sweet smelling flowers,<br />
Birds taking flight.<br />
An ocean of colour,<br />
The horizon so bright,<br />
A feeling of hope,<br />
And nothing to fear.<br />
Beautiful hills,<br />
And fields full of corn<br />
Chairs in the garden,<br />
Swings on the lawn.<br />
<br />
The howling of wolves,<br />
Death and decay,<br />
A dread in the heart,<br />
At the start of the day. <br />
Scared of the shadows,<br />
And what they contain,<br />
Contorted illusions,<br />
Of a brain that’s insane.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I began to sniff glue on a regular basis; enthralled by the
way it made me feel. Every opportunity I got was spent with a carrier bag at my
mouth, escaping the hell that had become my world.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
During the periods when I wasn’t high, and the way the come
down left me feeling, a new kind of anger started to emerge, giving me a
compulsion to inflict harm on myself, as well as becoming more physically
violent towards others.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I soon started picking on the local kids, demanding that
they give me their pocket money, threatening to beat them up if they told their
parents, (and sometimes beating them up anyway). Every time a cat or dog came
near me, I would lash out as hard as my strength would allow. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
At times they appeared to have his grotesque smile, and this
could send me over the edge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes
I’d sit for hours within the confines of my room, stabbing my arm with a sewing
needle. I’d stab harder and harder, enjoying the burning pain. It took my mind
off the memories, images that now tormented my brain on a daily basis, except
for the occasions when the glue took me away.<br />
<br />
UK & US amazon links<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1">http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1">http://www.amazon.com/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-63141373080480768882012-07-14T08:35:00.002-07:002012-07-14T08:35:16.224-07:00Dreaming (Wishing)<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Xqf5228dZKA/UAGRhf6n-SI/AAAAAAAAA9c/SLFsIVqJlkM/s1600/Palmer%252C_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover_%2528Amazon%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Xqf5228dZKA/UAGRhf6n-SI/AAAAAAAAA9c/SLFsIVqJlkM/s320/Palmer%252C_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover_%2528Amazon%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How great it would be
to fly. To soar up into the sky, higher and higher, not stopping until I
reached a new world. A place where no one cried and where smiling was
compulsory. Fields so full of bright and vibrant colours, it would be
impossible to walk around without feeling joy in your heart. A land where even
the slightest of pain is nonexistent and vast rivers flow with crystal clear
waters. Where a gentle breeze would weave its way through the branches of
trees, making them sing so loud it was almost deafening, but pleasing at the
same time.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such a place might be
called Heaven.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Of a love so great it was almost visible. A feeling of such
intensity I felt a compulsion to reach out and grab hold of it, to savour it
and keep it as mine forever. Perhaps it would be possible for every soul
inhabiting this special place to be linked together for all eternity, joined
by<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>this wondrous power, smiling and
laughing, and just being happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Suddenly, reality returned me to the park bench I was
sitting on, just outside the school gates. A tear trickled down my cheek, would
I ever be free of Ropeman? Was it my destiny to be stalked and tormented by him
forever? My mind could not comprehend what he was doing at my new school, and I
felt overwhelmed with paranoia, convinced he was only there because he knew I
was. It felt as though he was telling me that things were not yet finished, and
I felt so alone.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-28879441743477857692012-07-13T13:04:00.002-07:002012-07-13T13:04:48.911-07:00Battle Scars<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZxeAeWDtUy8/UAB_F31dRuI/AAAAAAAAA9Q/bXBpY_0JyYE/s1600/Palmer,_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover_(Amazon).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZxeAeWDtUy8/UAB_F31dRuI/AAAAAAAAA9Q/bXBpY_0JyYE/s320/Palmer,_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover_(Amazon).jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is by no means
an attempt to explain the dynamics of self-harming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don't understand it myself, but I'll share
how I experienced it.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
There have been many times in my life when the sensation of
angry ants crawling just below the surface of my skin threatened to drive me
mad. It felt as though they were gnawing at my skin, ready to devour my flesh.
The feeling that I was being eaten from the inside out is the best way I can
describe it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There seemed to be no
relief . . . just an endless assault by invisible enemies declaring war from
within my own body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
As these horrible feelings intensified, the stronger the
urge to hurt myself became. It was as if the wounds I inflicted on my body were
actually enabling the creatures dwelling beneath my skin to escape, leaving me
temporarily relieved. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I have taken razorblades, broken beer bottles, and even
lighters to my arms, desperately trying to rid myself of the sensation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In hindsight, I believe these were feelings,
emotions which I chose to suppress, memories that can only be pushed so far
back into one’s mind, before they push back, with a vengeance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My self-harming has
never been an attempt at suicide, and it wasn't attention seeking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was just a means of relieving the constant
emotional torment.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
These actions were at their height during my time at
Kingfisher, but there was an occasion when I literally hacked at myself with a
razorblade whilst aimlessly wandering through a busy shopping centre in <st1:place>South
London</st1:place>. The result was over 200 hundred stitches, ironically these
actions only served to fuel my self-hatred, which in turn, made me want to do
something similar in order to ease the new pain.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
It was a vicious cycle, which at the time seemed impossible
to break.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Whenever the blood flowed from inside me, I felt a great
sense of relief, and there were many times when watching it actually made me
feel content, like I had accomplished something. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
There was never any great battle within me to stop doing it,
in fact, I often looked forward to the feeling of “self gratification” in
hurting myself; it was the only thing that appeared to ease my pain.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
As I grew older, the need to do these things was alleviated,
until finally, thankfully, it became nothing more than another bad instalment
of my complex past.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I’ve often heard people expressing anger at those who “self
harm”. I personally think these views aren’t altogether justified. Very few
things are black and white, and when it comes to admonishing someone for these
actions, in my experience, it only serves to escalate the problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's very much like scratching an unbearable
itch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;">In the present, I try to hide my many scars by wearing long sleeves
whenever possible, and I have numerous tattoos to cover the more drastic
damage. Having said that, on the many occasions that I’ve been asked how they
came to be, I have always been honest, and I feel no shame in telling others
that the scars were self-inflicted.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-1187487542972918742012-07-03T08:33:00.001-07:002015-06-06T05:33:43.733-07:00Teenage ZombieWith bleached blond hair, and an abundance of safety-pins, I honestly thought I looked mean and scary and tough.<br />
I swaggered around the estate drinking beer and smoking both cigarettes as well as dope, and I felt like someone important, someone to be feared . . .<br />
. . . but I was nothing more than a kid with the wieght of the world on his shoulders.<br />
<br />
I wanted to be different, to stand out from the crowd, but most of all, I wanted to mask how I felt inside.<br />
<br />
During my teens mum wasn't always in the best of health, (I often wonder if my behaviour played a part in that), and she was often in hospital. <br />
<br />
<br />
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During these times, dad would run the home; cooking us all dinner, shopping, and doing the other mundane tasks that helped to keep a home in order. <br />
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he asked me if I intended on visiting mum on an occassion when she had to have major surgery, "No" was my rude but simple reply.<br />
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I had to go to Stuart and karen's, and I didn't want to make Stuart angry by not turning up. <br />
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Stuart was a middle-aged man who, along with his wife, forced me to have sex with them - night after night. <br />
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I couldn't tell my dad this, and so I pretended to be an uncaring yob - when truthfully - all I wanted to do was visit my mum.<br />
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At fourteen, I should have been laughing and joking and having fun - but instead I was merely wandering around like a teenage zombie - lying to the world about how I really felt.<br />
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The abuse I was being subjected to by Stuart and Karen, (along with the teacher at school), were not just abusing me, but my entire family. <br />
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Eerytime I was toched by these people, they were not just interfereing with me, but my mum and dad too.<br />
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<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;">Child Abuse Destroys Entire Families - Do't Let It Ruin Yours!</span></em></strong><br />
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<strong><em><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1341329503&sr=8-1">http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1341329503&sr=8-1</a></em></strong><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1">http://www.amazon.com/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1</a><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-13749306602134051642012-07-02T08:44:00.000-07:002013-01-08T16:09:00.230-08:00Misplaced AngerI remember an argument I was having with my father. I think I was about 14 yrs old, and following an accident at work, he was confined to the house with a plaster-cast on his leg.<br />
I don't remember what we were arguing about, just my reaction, which as always back then, was way over the top.<br />
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I'd been swearing at both him and my mother for some reason, and this resulted in him chasing me through the house on crutches.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eQ64Uvu03O8/T_HBMfJYmhI/AAAAAAAAA8s/N9WaiPeewjA/s1600/Palmer,_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover_(Amazon).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eQ64Uvu03O8/T_HBMfJYmhI/AAAAAAAAA8s/N9WaiPeewjA/s320/Palmer,_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover_(Amazon).jpg" width="200" /></a>I goaded him with threats and general verbal abuse.<br />
the situation got so that he was hobbling up the stairs, and I was standing at the top, and with no warning, I spat directly into his face. He closed his eyes and stood there, balancing on his crutches. after a few minutes, he somehow turned round and went struggling back down the stairs. <br />
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I'd won . . . or so i thought at the time, but I was very wrong.<br />
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The school teacher who groomed and led me into the sordid world of child ponography - the middle-aged couple who inflicted their own perverse abuse on me - they were the ones who were winning - winning by my slience alone.<br />
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I was angry with everyone and everything around me - I didn't know what to do, or who to turn to - and I was hurting. And because I was hurting, my family was hurting as well.<br />
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Child abuse doesn't just tear the victim's soul apart - it destroys whole families. It bores itself into the very heart, and rips it from the ribcage with a vengence.<br />
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I kept the secret for almost thirty years. I used drugs, alcohol, and violence to try and mask how I was feeling inside, when all I should have done, was tell my parents.<br />
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<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;">Child Abuse Destroys Entire Lives - Don't Let It Ruin Yours!</span></em></strong><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1">http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1">http://www.amazon.com/Losing-the-Hate-ebook/dp/B004BDOV0M/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-21369347489045032342012-06-12T06:05:00.002-07:002014-02-14T20:00:44.226-08:00Some Reviews of Losing the Hate<div class="mt4" id="titleStripe-dpReviewsMostHelpful-B004BDOV0M-R34PCNHU1BY7W9">
Here's some great reviews for Losing the Hate folks </div>
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8 of 8 people found the following review
helpful </div>
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<span style="margin-right: 5px;"><span class="swSprite s_star_5_0 " title="5.0 out of 5 stars">5.0 out of 5
stars</span> </span><span style="vertical-align: middle;"><b>Harrowing but
compulsively readable.</b></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/pdp/profile/A3F3TQ8BSHEJFJ/ref=cm_cr_pr_pdp"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #004b91;">Brian Springer "Springer13"</span></span></a> (Temecula, CA)
- <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/cdp/member-reviews/A3F3TQ8BSHEJFJ/ref=cm_cr_pr_auth_rev?ie=UTF8&sort_by=MostRecentReview"><span style="color: #004b91;">See
all my reviews</span></a></div>
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<b><span class="h3color tiny"><span style="color: #e47911;">This
review is from: </span></span>Losing the Hate (Kindle Edition)</b> </div>
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hqavEcgB9q0/T9c-eHRXGMI/AAAAAAAAA7Y/y7WIFgEKh1U/s1600/Palmer,_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover_(Amazon).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hqavEcgB9q0/T9c-eHRXGMI/AAAAAAAAA7Y/y7WIFgEKh1U/s320/Palmer,_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover_(Amazon).jpg" height="320" width="200" /></a>In Losing The
Hate, Simon Palmer has done something remarkable. He's taken a harrowing,
disturbing subject (the story of his abuse as a young child) and made it
compulsively readable. He does this with a clear, engaging writing style that
takes you back in time, sticks you straight in the middle of the story and
allows you a glimpse of what was going on inside his head.<br />
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By presenting
the material in a straight-forward, lucid manner, he maximizes the impact
without getting too graphic. The personal insights scattered throughout the book
are of particular notice; by helping explain what he was thinking when these
atrocities were occurring, it allows you to see things from his point of view,
helping you understand what allowed this terrible situation to proceed in the
manner in which it did and garnering quite a bit of empathy for others who may
find themselves in the same situation. Hopefully, after reading this book, you
will have a clear understanding of how these terrible things can happen, and
more importantly, a clear understanding of how to keep them from happening in
the future.<br />
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The bottom line: Simon Palmer has written an important,
meaningful book. He is clearly writing directly from the heart and what he has
to say will break yours. The guts it took to put this all down on paper is
remarkable and his self-analysis pulls no punches. Throughout the course of the
book, he shows a clear awareness of his issues and what needs to be done to
counteract them; here's hoping that telling his story to the world will help him
sort through them. <br />
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<span style="background-color: black;">2 of 2 people found the following review helpful</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="margin-right: 5px;"><span class="swSprite s_star_4_0 " style="background-image: url(http://g-ecx.images-amazon.com/images/G/02/common/sprites/sprite-site-wide._V146303782_.png); background-position: -43px 0px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; display: inline-block; height: 13px; margin: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: relative; vertical-align: middle; width: 65px;" title="4.0 out of 5 stars"><span style="left: -9999px; position: absolute;">4.0 out of 5 stars</span></span> </span><span style="vertical-align: middle;"><b>It must have taken a lot of soul searching to write this....</b>, <nobr>25 Feb 2012</nobr></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/pdp/profile/A25HWUX0L2DCFM/ref=cm_cr_pr_pdp" style="color: #004b91;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Cheryl M-M</span></a> (United Kingdom) - <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/cdp/member-reviews/A25HWUX0L2DCFM/ref=cm_cr_pr_auth_rev?ie=UTF8&sort_by=MostRecentReview" style="color: #004b91;">See all my reviews</a></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span class="cmtySprite s_BadgeTop500 " style="background-image: url(http://g-ecx.images-amazon.com/images/G/02/common/sprites/sprite-communities._V164809277_.png); background-position: 0px -490px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; display: inline-block; height: 13px; margin: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: relative; vertical-align: middle; width: 93px;"><span style="left: -9999px; position: absolute;">(TOP 500 REVIEWER)</span></span> </span></div>
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<b style="background-color: black;"><span class="h3color tiny" style="color: #e47911;">This review is from: </span>Losing the Hate (Kindle Edition)</b></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">Not easy to read from an emotional point of view. The pedophile Mr Ropeman would have picked Simon because he knew he would be less likely to say anything due to Simons personal background. Pedophiles are very clever at what they do they groom and instill a sense of blame and guilt in their victims, which lasts for years to come. Although the writer thinks he has come to terms with his past, to me it seemed as if he still has a way to travel yet. Sometimes closure can only be found when you confront the nightmare, saying that I hope Simon is getting some help for his inner demons. I think the most poignant sentence he wrote was when he himself questioned whether his actions were due to the abuse he endured or whether he was just a bully. This is where I also seperate the issue of sexual abuse of Simon and Simons physical/verbal abuse of his loved ones. Anger and not being able to control it is one thing, whether that anger is caused by someone/something else is irrelevant. Having it inside you like a festering wound is a state, which many of us can reconcile with. Lashing out in anger and not controlling it, that is something many people will not accept readily. So I think Simon needs to recognise those two parts of his identity as seperate and learn to deal with/reflct on them seperately. That also means accepting that he is also an abuser de facto and will one day have to help the person/persons he abused physically come to terms with that.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;">I commend him for having the strength to write it all down and see it on paper/e-ink whilst having to visualise it once more in his head.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">1 of 1 people found the following review helpful</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="margin-right: 5px;"><span class="swSprite s_star_4_0 " style="background-image: url(http://g-ecx.images-amazon.com/images/G/02/common/sprites/sprite-site-wide._V146303782_.png); background-position: -43px 0px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; display: inline-block; height: 13px; margin: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: relative; vertical-align: middle; width: 65px;" title="4.0 out of 5 stars"><span style="left: -9999px; position: absolute;">4.0 out of 5 stars</span></span> </span><span style="vertical-align: middle;"><b>someone needs to tell</b>, <nobr>26 Sep 2012</nobr></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/pdp/profile/A8VBEPZDKGYMH/ref=cm_cr_pr_pdp" style="color: #004b91;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">bluebird</span></a> - <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/cdp/member-reviews/A8VBEPZDKGYMH/ref=cm_cr_pr_auth_rev?ie=UTF8&sort_by=MostRecentReview" style="color: #004b91;">See all my reviews</a></span></div>
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<b style="background-color: black;"><span class="h3color tiny" style="color: #e47911;">This review is from: </span><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Losing-Hate-Simon-Palmer/dp/1908481641/ref=cm_cr_pr_orig_subj" style="color: #004b91;">Losing the Hate (Paperback)</a></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;">this book was hard to read but so very enlightening i feel these stories need to be read as so many people think its just girls who are at risk but sye showed every reader that as hard it was for him to write and how hard it must have been to revisit hopefully he can start to deal with life and enjoy his sure to be wonderful future as an author good luck to him<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B004BDOV0M/ref=cm_cr_asin_lnk" style="color: #004b91;">Losing the Hate</a></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1397581683492603428.post-29878542890136440482012-06-12T04:04:00.000-07:002012-06-12T04:04:34.003-07:00Busy WritingHello,<br />
<br />
It's been a while since my last posting, but here I am again.<br />
<br />
I've been busy writing my horror \ paranormal debut book, The Silence, which I'm sure you'll all enjoy.<br />
<br />
It should be out by the end of the year, but hopefully a little sooner.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, if you haven't already, why not take a look at my personal memoir, Losing the Hate, which is available on amazon.com \ amazon.co.uk, in both e-book, and paperback form. <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GXU9t3m4VOA/T9ciKuUsrNI/AAAAAAAAA7M/MQCN7Fk5GRI/s1600/The+Silence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GXU9t3m4VOA/T9ciKuUsrNI/AAAAAAAAA7M/MQCN7Fk5GRI/s320/The+Silence.jpg" width="212" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vb477UxjRoM/T9cht1Y_EYI/AAAAAAAAA68/Gw3VdJB2XUo/s1600/Palmer,_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover_(Amazon).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vb477UxjRoM/T9cht1Y_EYI/AAAAAAAAA68/Gw3VdJB2XUo/s320/Palmer,_Simon_-_Losing_The_Hate_book_cover_(Amazon).jpg" width="200" /></a> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04148089111946107938noreply@blogger.com0