A Theory of Everything # 9 'Cecilia'

There is another name I should include in my Theory of Everything, a name that belongs to a story of sweet romance cruelly deformed, over time, by sadness and regret, an anecdote with a sharp point from my late teenage years.

‘Cecillia’ is not her real name but it is an appropriate alias. 'Cecilia' has a connection to her real name but one that would be really difficult to ‘back-engineer’. I have a particularly vested interest in preserving her anonymity, the reasons for which will become evident below. I want to keep ‘Cecilia’ safe.

I first met ''Cecilia when I was around 19 years old and she worked in the local library as an assistant, stamping returned books and stacking shelves. I found it strangely easy to ask her out though perhaps a little surprised at how eagerly she replied ‘Yes!’ We fell into a relationship as easily as an otter slips into a river, without disturbing the continuity of the world. 'Cecilia' wasn’t my first girlfriend but she was the first girl that I really loved. I especially remember rolling around with her in the snow and the hummingbird flutter of wings in my undefended heart. The world around us receded and became blurred while the space between us glowed like a June sun. Incredibly, I had no inkling of the monster lurking under 'Cecilia’s' bed.

When ‘Cecilia’ called off the relationship it came as a complete surprise. I found it difficult to fathom her apparent change of heart and I walked away confused though resigned. But there was a reason, one that she couldn’t share with me there and then. There was an awful secret that ‘Cecilia’ had carried since she was a little girl, one that she would continue to carry long after we parted.

I didn’t see her again for around two or three years. I was sitting on a bench opposite a busy road in Farnborough, though the noise of traffic could not disturb my thoughts as troubles that seemed insurmountable to me sat heavily on my shoulders, absorbing all of my attention. And then ‘Cecilia’ appeared as if out of the blue. I was surprised, though genuinely pleased to see her. She sat down with me and we talked for a while, though now I remember very few details of our conversation. I do recall ‘Cecilia’ flattering me on my apparent ability to deal with difficult things, alluding to some virtue that I felt was unearned. She was definitely overestimating me. I later realised she was casting around for a rock. 'Cecilia' was headed towards a dark and desperate place and I was the last person that she might hang on to. When she finally got up to go she suggested I call in at her home later that week.

I did.

‘Cecilia’ actually lived on the same council estate as me, just a couple of blocks away but I found myself on her doorstep for the first time in two or three years. I knocked and her mother answered the door. She explained that ‘CecIlia’ wasn’t at home, that she had been recently admitted to Frimley Park hospital. Her mother wouldn’t explain why her daughter was in hospital but suggested that I go visit her. I remember going to the hospital almost immediately.

I arrived at Frimley Park Hospital and found ‘Cecilia’ in a communal lounge, in dressing gown and slippers, alongside her mother. As soon as she spotted me she shuffled over and dragged me away to somewhere quieter, a little more private. I asked her, plainly, why she was in hospital and her answer came, without real hesitation, in two shocking parts. She had, by her own account, just made a suicide attempt. I barely had time to absorb her first disclosure when ‘Cecilia’ delivered the second. Her suicide attempt had been made out of desperation, as a way out of truly sickening circumstances, the ultimate escape from a hostile environment ( her home ) and a monster ( her father, or step-father, I was never certain of which ), who had been systematically violating her since she was a little girl. She was to be released from hospital the next day and she asked if we could meet up when she got home.

I said yes.

By the time she had been discharged from hospital I had decided that I couldn’t help ‘Cecilia’. I distinctly remember two forces overruling my conscience. First, I felt out of my depth. I was confronted with something for which that I had no frame of reference. Second, my own troubles took precedence. I was egotistically self-absorbed and genuinely believed I was unworthy and powerless.

And then I did something really terrible. When 'Cecilia' came knocking I enlisted someone else to answer the door and make excuses on my behalf.

‘Cecilia’ was a victim crying for help. She looked to me for support and compassion and I hid. Worse than that, I allowed somebody else to make sure I stayed hidden. That moment was an opportunity for me to step up and be a man. I failed. It was unconscionable and a shameful act of cowardice that haunted me for more than four decades, until I brought it into therapy, first with Isobel Brooks at Basingstoke Counselling Services and then later with Dr Jackie Preston. It was Jackie who helped me understand the connections between ‘Cecilia’, Sally Mungall and, particularly, with my mother.

The abandonment of ‘Cecilia’ wasn’t just my failure. It was also an opportunity missed by my mother. It was my mother who I enlisted to open the door to a rape victim and it was my mother who dismissed a rape victim, ostensibly to save me from feeling uncomfortable and from doing a difficult thing. My mother, who had been the victim of an almost identical violation.