By Donna Ford with Linda Watson-Brown
Abused through her stepmother among the a while of 5 and 11, Donna Ford was categorised 'the bastard', the 'little witch,' and 'the evil one.' She was once overwhelmed, remoted, and afraid to even examine her personal mirrored image by way of actual and psychological abuse that eventually progressed to the main appalling sexual assaults. regardless of an horrendous adolescence, Donna is now a winning artist and mom of 3 with an immense enthusiasm and an optimism which thoroughly belies her reports. In 2003, Donna watched as her stepmother used to be stumbled on accountable of 'procuring a minor' for sexual abuse and sentenced to 2 years in legal.
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Abused via her stepmother among the a long time of 5 and 11, Donna Ford was categorised 'the bastard', the 'little witch,' and 'the evil one. ' She was once crushed, remoted, and afraid to even examine her personal mirrored image via actual and psychological abuse that eventually progressed to the main appalling sexual assaults.
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Additional info for The Step Child: A true story of a broken childhood
I was not just a child without a voice – I was the invisible girl too. My life is different now. I have three children whom I have reared with love and respect. I have tried to instil in them a good sense of who they are. They are always listened to and their opinions are valued; they do not live with fear or guilt. In spite of the abuse I suffered as a child I have gone on to achieve my personal goals of being a good parent and nurturing my artistic talent, allowing me to earn a living from something I truly love to do.
The space on my tummy where my too-short vest doesn’t meet my too-small knickers. I get all goose-bumpy, and then even the goose-bumps are too cold to stay. I’ve tried lots of ways of not feeling so bad when she sends me in here. I just wish I could find something that works. Sometimes I try to think of nothing, to just make my mind go completely blank. Other times, I make up lists in my head, or invent a world from a book I’ve read, or use my eyes to trace patterns in the cracks in the wall. One day, I tried to listen to absolutely everything that was going on in the rest of the house.
In all honesty, it was run-down, working class and dirty. Buses went up and down the main road to virtually everywhere in the city, and the shops lining either side of the thoroughfare sold absolutely everything. There was Rankin’s the fruiterers, where produce was always put in brown paper bags, twirled over at each corner before you paid. There was a stream of grocer’s shops where you could buy cheap booze, single fags and true-life crime magazines. There were second-hand shops, and shops with their own ‘savings club’ where clothes could be paid for on a weekly basis and no one would ask about the exorbitant prices, grateful to get anything on tick.