Susan Sarandon crusades against Child Abuse

http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-31749_162-20012861-10391698.html

An interview with Stacey Danson by Author Poppet.

Tomorrow I’ll be featuring the first chapter of Stacey Danson’s book Empty Chairs for you to read. Empty Chairs is going to be published by Night Publishing, a decision which makes me respect the owners of her publishing house. And I’d like to take this opportunity to also thank Tim for giving his permission for you to read Stacey’s first chapter tomorrow – Thank you Tim.



I wanted you to get to know a little bit about Stacey before you read the first chapter of her memoir tomorrow, to give you insight into what an amazing woman she is. Her sense of humour shines through, as does her humility.


I respect her greatly, I know she is more courageous than any president in any office who can get other people to fight his battles for him – yet is given the power to rule a country.


Life is war, some of us start off so deep in the trenches that you cannot fathom what *normal* is. Normal is relative. Tomorrow when you read Stacey’s excerpt, I want you to consider just how lucky you’ve had it in this life.


Humans are prone to complaining, about the weather, the traffic, inflation – whatever – just as long as the jaw is working and misery is oozing out. Stacey Danson manages to make all of those people seem utterly pathetic. She has every reason to complain, to blame her childhood, to blame society, to blame everyone – yet instead, she grabs each day with both hands and inhales deeply, grateful to be here, alive.


I am moved to tears just thinking about Stacey’s story. I urge you to never take a day for granted again. The next time you open your mouth to whinge, think about this woman. And please – read the excerpt tomorrow – it will transform you – forever. I am greatly honoured to have the opportunity to interview Stacey before Oprah does (grins).




Hi Stacey, thank you so much for allowing me to interview you. Your book Empty Chairs is an explosive account of your life behind closed doors, which takes courage and bravery to write.




• I’d like to know when did you first decide to write your memoirs?


Thanks for inviting me to your site, Poppet. Decision is a complex word isn’t it? I know the day I decided to write this was not one I’ll ever forget. I had promised someone very dear to me that ‘One Day’ I would share this. One day I would tell people about the things that happened, to me … and to her. Her name was Jenny. I met her living on the streets in the sixties. I was eleven, she was barely nine. For over 40 years we remained friends, supportive and loving. We kept each other’s secrets well hidden. Jenny committed suicide a year ago. I was utterly convinced that I had somehow let her down, I hadn’t written a word of it. I decided the day of her funeral, that it was time to honor that promise.


• Can you explain to the reader how it feels to revisit your past and make yourself so vulnerable again?


It would be an understatement to say this is a difficult process, I wasn’t prepared for the pounding my emotions would take. Stupid …yeah? I have worked so very hard all my life to keep this locked away, doing everything I could to shield myself from the memories. It was always there lingering on the outskirts like a nightmare that you have had and don’t ever want to have again. I thought at first that I could distance myself from it and write it down chronologically so I didn’t need to invest my emotions. I can be a stupid woman sometimes, this isn’t a story I’m creating as a work of fiction, the nausea and fear I am experiencing by writing it down are very real. I am showing strangers and friends alike my underbelly and hoping like shit that no-one takes advantage of me being so exposed. I feel like I have cut myself and the bleeding hasn’t stopped. Does that make any sense at all? (perfectly)


• Who did you write this book for? Is it for you, to help overcome the silence and the pain, or someone you love? (This is aside from the reader who you obviously want to influence when it comes to abuse in society).


At first I thought I was doing this as an honor thing for Jenny; then I tried convincing myself that it was only to make people aware of what happens behind closed doors. Finally and only after getting stinking drunk for a week solid I had to face the fact that this is just as much for me. I had never touched on more than just the basics of it with anyone. If I am to be truly honest this is as much for me as it is for anyone else. Facing the dragon and slaying the bloody thing is something long overdue. Whatever the outcome … it’s time.


• Has this book influenced your day to day life? Do people behave differently around you now – has it helped to open up about your past so that the future is baggage free?


Phew…three questions in one! Okay “has this book influenced my day to day life?” Hell yes. I have isolated myself from the outside world as much as humanly possible whilst I am writing this. My main contact with anyone in my life at the moment is via the internet and the telephone. Once a month I have friends over and they stay a weekend…that is keeping me sane…or as sane as possible. I order my groceries on-line and have them delivered. I go days at a time without seeing another human being. I am like a raw exposed nerve, and I don’t want to lash out at people who care about me … so until this is done, that’s the way I’ll just have to be. Not a good plan for my long term health and I know that, yet it’s the best I can do … I just don’t have anything left in me to give at the end of a day or nights writing.


“Do people behave differently around you now?” Uh huh…yeah, some do. Nothing really bad or at least so far, people that care about me were angry with me at first, really damned angry. It was as if I hadn’t trusted them enough to confide in them for all these years. I was shocked initially, at the anger. I had this vague notion that perhaps I wouldn’t still be loved if they really knew about my past. That was not a very fair way to look at the people that love me. Perhaps I should’ve trusted them more? Trust is still something I have problems with, I am learning … slowly. Whether I can ever completely lower my guard is debatable, I have built it so well over all these years. The other and more obvious thing that has happened is that friends that have known me a long time are being cautious what they say in front of me. It’s like… “Oh hell I’m sorry…I shouldn’t have told that joke.” Or… “Whoops sorry, I didn’t mean what I said to sound that way.” I have had to resort to yelling at them…I am the same female that you sat and got drunk with and hit on a year ago…I laugh at almost anything, have a very colorful vocabulary! I still eat, sleep, fart and take a crap the same way…so stop with the sensitivity already.


As for the future being baggage free…can any of us say without reservation that we are not a bi-product of the baggage we carry? I’m learning to lighten the weight of it. That’s the best I can manage for now.


• Do you have a motto?


I have several, most of which are too risque to put in an interview. I guess my favourite repeatable one is “If you always do, what you’ve always done. Then you’ll always get, what you always got.” That makes perfect sense to me.
• 

If there is one thing you could change in this world what would it be?


Now that’s a heavy duty question! The one thing that I believe would make any difference in this screwed up world … yeah. I believe no child on this planet should ever go to sleep without knowing they are unconditionally loved. Simple.


• Do you have anyone you aspire to?
No.


• Name two things that make you happy?


My daughter. And Sunrise.


• If you could thank someone, who would you like to thank and why?


I feel like I’m getting an Oscar or something… “I would like to thank the members of the Academy and every person I have ever met and their relatives!” Sorry … seriously…yeah, apart from my friends and family…I would like to say a big thank you to Tim Roux and the other people at Night Publishing…it takes guts to take on a book like this. They believe in me … and that feels wonderful.


( It just takes one to believe in you for anything to be possible x)


Stacey thank you so much for your contribution to society. I know that Empty Chairs is not a fairy tale or the scribblings of a delusional woman, but a painful recollection of your past. The reader can never understand what it’s like to show people the horror of your history, but you are a phenomenal woman today, a gentle woman who takes each day as a precious gift, and I really hope our readers count their blessings after reading your excerpt. Thank you for letting us in.

Empty Chairs my story. Posted on Poppet Author's Brutal Tuesday blog

We are honoured to feature chapter one of Stacey Danson’s book Empty Chairs on the blog today, as a preview for my blog readers. Thank you to Stacey and her publisher Night Publishing for allowing me this opportunity. Please read yesterday’s blog where I interview Stacey.




                                                            EMPTY CHAIRS

                                                    by STACEY DANSON

 Recent events in my world have caused me to think deeply about the responsibility I have, that we all have, to make more people aware of what can and does happen in a home that may well be right next door to you.



Chapter One…

The sexual abuse began I think around three years of age … maybe four.

It began at first with fondling. An adult, usually my mother, would take my hand and place it on the male’s cock.

Not one man—there were many men. It was a game at first. A game that caused my mother to smile and give me hugs of approval.

Whatever male it happened to be at the time sure seemed happy about that game, so did mommy.

I had no idea what it was, or why I was doing it.

At that age, making my mommy smile was all that mattered.

Mommy didn’t smile at me or hug me much up until then; she liked to hit me with a strap and yell a lot of the time. Making her happy was imperative. If it meant that I had to wrap my small hands around a mans cock, and squeeze it up and down, then that is exactly what I would do. I still retch at the smell of cum.

I don’t recall when it was that I started to hate the game.

I do know that the first time they put a man’s cock in my mouth it made me gag, and I started to cry.

I had to be punished for that. Mommy and the man took it in turns to hit me. I was screaming, and begging them to please stop.

They thought that was funny and started laughing and making funny sounds, like a pig does when it squeals.

They dragged me to a small room in the back of the house where boxes and old things were stored.

No light came in to that room. It was smelly and dark. I could hear things scuttling around, but that didn’t frighten me. I remember feeling a little better knowing that some other live thing was in there with me.

The darkness and the lack of air to breathe caused fear. My heart was already pounding from the terror of the beating, and now I gasped for air, not recognizing or understanding that this was the beginning of a lifetime of battling claustrophobia.

                                                            That was my very first conscious memory of fear. I didn’t like it .

It seemed to me that this crying stuff was not such a good thing to do. I decided it would be better for me if I didn’t cry at all. Ever. I threw up all over myself. I remember that my back was sore and sticky; the singlet I had on was stuck to it.

I wasn’t wearing anything else.

I was unable to keep standing. My back hurt, and my small legs shook so badly I could no longer stay upright. I crawled across to the door and lay with my mouth as close to the crack of light at the base of the door as I could get. I drew in huge breaths of the air filtering in underneath.

I don’t know which of the adults present heard me gasping, but very quickly something was placed on the other side of the door to block out the light and the air.

I began to hum to myself so I wasn’t so alone. M.I.C.K.E.Y…M.O.U.S.E.

I find that I am writing this as if I were still four years old … forgive me, but I am writing what I remember and how I felt right at that moment. It is coming out this way. This is the way I will have to write it.

I have no idea how long I was kept in the dark place. It seemed to me that I slept and woke up a few times. I used a piece of paper to shit on. I was hungry and so thirsty. I started to feel sick again and vomited some more, but I had stopped wetting myself. I kept getting thirstier and my stomach began to cramp up. I just wanted to go to sleep and stay asleep.

Nothing could hurt me when I was sleeping.

When she came to get me out I was so–so grateful … she hugged me and told me that she would bathe me because I smelled bad.

If I was a good girl, I could have some lemonade and something to eat. I tried to drink all the lemonade at once and threw up again.

I waited for the slap.

She laughed instead, told me I was a silly-billy and to have small mouthfuls until my naughty tummy settled down.

She explained to me that I didn’t have to have that happen again as long as I did what the men wanted me to do. I recall saying that I would do anything I was told, “Please, mommy … can I not go back … in the dark place?” She smiled at me, and said, “Well—we shall just see how good you can be.”



Hey, I was bright. If she smiled and hugged me and called me silly-billy in her happy voice … well; sure I would do anything, anything at all.

She had to bathe me with my singlet on, as it had stuck fast to my back with dried blood. I wanted to cry when she finally peeled it off. I didn’t. There was no way I was going back in the dark place again.

I don’t want to remember a lot of what happened—but I do remember. I knew that writing it and taking myself back over the abuse would be difficult. I hadn’t counted on the panic or the flashbacks. I keep taking breaks outside, sitting in the cool night air and forcing myself to breathe deeply.

I must do this. I made a promise to someone that I would someday. Someday just got here a little later than I thought it would. I cannot distance my memories and reflect back unemotionally, because it was me … me feeling it; me living through and beyond it.



The area in which we lived was an inner suburb of Sydney, only five minutes by bus from the shining harbor. I never saw the harbor or the city until I was almost twelve years old. I never once spoke to the neighbours on either side of the house. They ignored the screams, nobody ever came to check on what was going on. They didn’t want to get involved. Nobody wanted to hear the sound of a small child begging for help.



I had never had a playmate or another child’s company.

When I wasn’t busy making mommy’s friends happy, I would sleep or watch the television. I had no idea how to read, or indeed what reading was. She had made no mention of me learning to write my name or write anything at all.

I was not permitted to go outside the house. If I did, it was to hurry to the corner shop and get mommy more cigarettes.

I was not permitted to speak to anyone; she always gave me a note and exact change.

I remember the fat little lady that worked in the shop would sometimes ask me how I was. I never answered; she believed that I was deaf or mute or both.

What I was … was afraid.



I was five when my mother decided I was old enough to have my virginity taken. I was told that I must not cry. I must not scream. I must not struggle.

She had only been waiting, saving my hymen to see just how high a price she could get for the privilege of breaking it. The privilege of raping a five year old.



I had by then found a safe place inside my mind, a box that only I had access too. Whenever I was inside it, I was safe … it was large and clean … with air that didn’t smell. It was here I retreated, when the need to cry overwhelmed me.

The loss of my virginity was painful; I felt as if my insides where being torn apart. My Mother held my arms above my head, and placed something that tasted vile inside my mouth. I went to my safe place … but I could still hear the man grunting, grunting like a fat old pig. The pain was worse than any beating I had had up to that point

My safe place was not enough that time. I heard myself screaming. Then I blacked out.



When I awoke, it was dark. I could move my arms as long as I did it slowly. Someone had placed a old piece of towel between my legs, to try and stem the bleeding.

I lay there for a long time, wishing and hoping that I could just go to sleep and stay asleep, and never ever wake up again.

Wishing doesn’t make it happen. I was learning and learning fast that hope was not an option.

She came in after a long while with some ice in a bag and placed it between my legs; she took the towel and looked at it to see how bad the bleeding was. The towel was replaced. She didn’t speak.

She returned with a tray of food and a pot of tea. She also had a small glass of something cold, which she told me I must drink, as it would make me sleep. It tasted dreadful, but if it was going to make me sleep, I drank it. I’m not certain, but I think it was a glass full of whisky. She soon got in the habit of giving me a glass or two whenever I had to service the men; it made me more amenable to whatever they wanted me to do.



Television was my only contact with the world beyond that place; I would watch it and take care to remember the way things happened. I watched shows like ‘Leave it to Beaver’, ‘Rin-Tin-Tin’, ‘Superman’, and my favorite ‘The Andy Griffith show’.

These television programs showed me a different world. I began to get the distinct impression that my life was not normal. It appeared to my five-year-old self that not every kid on the planet lived like I did.



She had no intention of me ever going to school. I had only heard about school from watching television, all those kids went to school.

All those kids laughed. All the kids came home and had cookies and milk. That seemed like a simple idea to me. I never saw Beaver Cleaver take a beating.

I asked her when I could go to this school place. I remember seeing something like panic on her face for the first time. She screamed at me and hit me hard in the face, “You stupid little bitch! Who have you been talking to?” She hit me again before I could answer and split my lip open. She was in one of her rages and wouldn’t stop. She kept at it until I fell and then took to me with the strap. I lost track of time. I have no idea how long I was unconscious. I think that perhaps several days passed. I have vague memories of opening my eyes and smelling the stench of my own shit.



When I came around, I began vomiting. She was sitting on a stool next to the bed. I was lying in her bed. There was a man sitting on the side of the bed; he took my temperature. He opened my eyes and flashed a little light in them. He looked familiar; I think he was one of the men who liked me to make them cum in my mouth.



He spoke to her as if he was angry “You got lucky this time. She will be okay, but don’t hit her around the head like that again. Do you understand me?” I had never ever heard anyone raise their voice like that to her. I lay there fascinated and waited for her to hit him.

She began to cry.

That was the moment that I began learning how to hate.

As with everything I had learned up to this point, I learned it well.

She sniveled and whined like a dog. The man looked at me and kind of smiled. I looked back at him, and did nothing.

I never called her mother again by choice. I began to call her the name some of the men called her, “Gwen.” The first time I spoke to her at all was a couple of days later. She was kind of edgy and not screaming as much as usual. I said, “Gwen, when can I go to school?”

“What did you call me?”

I said, “Gwen.” I couldn’t put a name to what I felt … not then. I now recognize it as the day I began to fight back.

Not much … but it was a beginning.

Gwen spoke to me rarely. When she did it was to issue instructions on what she expected of me, depending on the desires of the paying clients. If I failed to give satisfaction, I was beaten. No mention was ever made again of me being able to attend school.

The man who had been there when I was ill returned. This time he came as a paying client, I thought I had remembered his face. He was a family doctor. He was also a paedophile.

He spoke to me differently, as if he was not happy about what he was doing but had to do it anyhow. He asked if she had beaten me again. I refused to answer. It didn’t occur to me he may assume she had by my lack of response. He asked if I had good food to eat, all I could say was, “I’m not supposed to talk to you. Gwen said just to let you cum in my mouth, or fuck me … if you paid extra. No talking.”

He looked sad, and he said, “I’ll try and help you if I can.”

I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Help me? What did he mean help me? Help me do what? After he returned to the bar area I heard Gwen’s voice, she was riled up and screeching. I was unable to understand what was being said.

My stomach lurched when the front door slammed–a clear sign she was not happy.

She came into the bathroom where I was cleaning the cum off myself. She grabbed my hair and dragged me out backwards, screaming as she slammed me up against the walls of the narrow corridor. “What did you say? What did you say, cunt? Tell me. Tell me now!”

I made myself go limp, saying nothing. I couldn’t have spoken anyway, my face hurt–it was bleeding badly. I could feel the damn tears … shit! No, I mustn’t cry. If I cried it meant the dark room … I mustn’t cry.

Too late, and the tears wouldn’t have changed a thing. The best I could do was stay limp, I knew to struggle would bring more rage. By going limp, I had learned that the beatings didn’t hurt so badly; plus it made it harder for her to drag me.

The dark room seemed smaller every time I was in there. The lack of air seemed worse; the fear more intense. I took myself to my safe place … sometimes it helped me to breathe.

I was learning that if I slowed my breathing right down so that I was hardly breathing at all–the shaking would stop. I was busy scrambling in my brain, trying to find ways of stopping her. Trying to think of ways to make her happy again, so the beatings would slow down.

My almost six-year-old mind had not yet learned to understand, there was no way.

I had also begun to think that one day, someday, I would find somewhere to hide. Somewhere safe and not full of pain.

The bruising from this beating was still very visible, and painful enough that I couldn’t perform oral sex for over a week. Gwen was furious, constantly screaming at me that I was faking and costing her money. After one of these tirades the thought struck me, if I could handle the beatings, I didn’t have to perform. However, if I didn’t perform, I would be of no use to her at all.

I believed then and still believe that she would have found a way to dispose of me … if I stopped earning her big money.



Thank you Stacey – I stand behind you, I walk with you, I will not be silent!