This period as a child, I can’t quite place the ages I believe from 7-10. I was utterly alone. A vibrant, intelligent child with loving friends, adoring teachers and a glee for everything, from writing, to drawing, to playing, to learning. But I’d go home, and be utterly alone. My foster brother sexually abused me but if he wasn’t molesting me, he was tormenting me, locking me in boxes and punching me, goading me into a reaction and when I did I was the one that got punished. As a foster child, my mum had to keep him happy to ensure her own job and he was very well aware of it. So my hurt, my pain was just collateral. My shame was my shame entirely. And then to fear my own older brother, who was supposed to protect me but in his appeasement of my foster brother, I had to be bruised and battered. My room which I loved so much, a pink princess room with all my dolls and dainty furniture became a frightening, terrible place. My bed was sodden with shame and sweat. My mirror harboured the darkness of what it witnessed.