What is a Victim?

‍According to the Oxford Dictionary a victim is, “A person harmed, injured or killed as a result of crime, accident, or other event or action”. 

My son and I lived in a small village. We had both grown up there. It’s the kind of village where everyone knows everyone. 

My son was 22 and engaged to his partner, with a baby on the way. My son still lived at home, but he and his partner were busy making plans for their future, their future as a family. 

Sadly, that future was not to be because one evening, my son killed a man. He had friends over, celebrating that he was about to become a father. People who were not invited turned up. When my son asked them to leave, things quickly got out of hand.

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I was at work when it happened. I found out something was wrong via social media. Unable to get hold of my son, I called the police and gave them my address. I asked if anything had happened at my house because by then, I was worried. , The police stated that “an altercation” had taken place in my home and as a result of that, a man had died. They wouldn’t tell me any more than that and for a while, I didn’t know if my son was dead or alive.  

The immediate aftermath is difficult to articulate, even years later.  My small community was shattered.

Three families have been left heartbroken. I think of them as I write this.

By the following day, my son had been charged with murder. His first offence. It was over a week before I saw him. But at least I could see my son. I was all too aware that the other mum would never see her son again. 

In the immediate hours and days after my son’s arrest, I lost my home. It became a crime scene, rather than my home. 

What’s even worse is that I know the deceased’s family very well. How could I face his mum in the local shop? What would it do to her, to see me? I knew I could never return to my village.  

I was homeless for six months, sleeping on my sister’s livingroom floor. The Local Authority, who I worked for,  refused to help me. They refused to help me because I worked in housing, and my manager said she didn’t want to be seen as showing favouritism towards an employee.

Had I not worked in housing, I would have been given an assisted move.

I was off work for six months. However, I was forced to return in order to be interviewed for my own job because the Council was cutting services. I  remember sitting in the interview not caring if I got my job or not. It seemed so insignificant to what I was going through.

I did manage to secure my post but soon went off sick again. I found it difficult to empathise with my clients. Their issues seemed so small compared to my own. 

As time went on, I became so unwell that I lost my career. I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia and osteoarthritis; as well as severe depression and anxiety. Suicidal thoughts and feelings became the norm.

I had to claim benefits for the first time in my life. I was forced to endure DWP’s medical assessments to “prove” how ill I was; but I couldn’t tell them what had caused my health issues because I was ashamed. As a result,  I was refused benefits many times.

I had to use my savings when I went on to nil income at work and by the time I furnished my new home, I literally had nothing left. I haven’t been able to return to work so I’m still on benefits, with nothing in the bank. You can’t save when you are on benefits.  

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 My grandson is 7 now.  He was 6 weeks old when his dad was sentenced to life in prison. He hasn’t had any contact with him since he was 2 years old because Mum didn’t want him going back to “a prison”. As a mum myself I didn’t blame her, but my heart ached for my son. 

I see my grandson for 3 hours, every fortnight. He doesn’t know anything about dad, but he knows that  I’m the link to him and naturally, used to ask me questions. Mum was upset at this and so kept us apart. I had to eventually seek a Court Order. He doesn’t ask about Dad anymore. 

He has another grandma and a great grandma, both of whom he spends lots of time with, including sleepovers and holidays. I am not allowed to have my grandson overnight or take him on holiday. He doesn’t understand why, and I can’t tell him. All his questions and feelings; swept under the rug.

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I am often afraid when I go out now. I continually look over my shoulder for fear of bumping into someone from my “old life”. I have seen the victim’s mum twice. She has aged 100 years. It haunts me. 

I no longer walk with my head held high. My head is down, so nobody sees me. My head is down because I have lost my pride. My head is down because I have lost my self-confidence. 

I struggle to join in with family celebrations. I’m all too aware that my son can’t be there. I know my son is their family too, but they don’t feel the pain that I feel. Nobody feels the pain that I feel.

I don’t join in with conversations with friends about our children and their achievements. I have so much to say, so much to still feel proud of. My son is doing well and using his time positively…but there are only so many times I can say that so it’s easier to say nothing.

My son will be 37 when he gets out. I will be 57. My time will be over, my opportunities lost. All the plans that I had got lost along the way; my sabbatical to New Zealand, progressing in my career, my hopes for more grandchildren, all gone. This is MY life sentence, too.

I pray that I don’t die while my son is in prison. I hate the thought of him attending my funeral handcuffed and on his own. 

According to the Oxford Dictionary a victim is someone who is “harmed, injured or killed as a result of crime, accident or other event or action”.  

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My name is … 

I am a the loved one of a prisoner…

I am a victim.