Michael Seed, Noel Botham
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Michael Seed's childhood was a daily ordeal of unspeakable neglect, misery, and abuse from an alcoholic father whose tyranny ruined his son’s formative years and drove his wife to suicide. On a daily basis both Michael and his mother would fall under the man’s wrath, and one awful night Michael’s father began sexually abusing his son, a trend that would continue for years. Worse still, the abuse did not stop at home. Once he began school, Michael fell victim to terrible bullying and a teacher who violated him repeatedly. Despite the horror of these years, Michael was ultimately saved by his own will to live, which inspired him to seek a better life as a friar. This is the remarkable story of an individual who, against all the odds, managed to preserve his own dignity and finally escape the horrors of a stolen childhood.
Standard ‘His life story is extraordinary’ – Observer ‘A traumatic broken childhood’ – Daily Express ‘A life story far more incredible than any bestseller’ – Jeffrey Archer This book is dedicated to my grandmother, Mary Ramsden, and Cardinal Basil Hume O.S.B., O.M.. I also wish to remember those beloved people who have given me a part in their lives these past fifty years. Friends of Michael Seed Martina Cole, Novelist I have known Michael for a good number of years now, and he never
go on my own and play with the circus children. I felt brave when I said it, but I didn’t feel quite so brave when my new friends all chose to stay behind, yelling after me to be careful and run like mad if I got into a fight. My idea was not to get into a fight. I wanted the circus people to take me with them when they left town. This was to be my escape route from Daddy and his beatings. Several boys and girls were standing around by the caravans and most of them looked a lot older than me.
up before I went to school, looking very white and sickly and not saying very much. ‘I’m sorry, Michael,’ she told me. ‘Sorry you had to go through all that again.’ But she didn’t appear to be very happy to be alive. Certainly not happy enough to stop her trying to kill herself again. And again. For over the next few months the upstairs drama was to become an almost regular feature of our family life. Usually, Daddy was able to cope, and when I found her unconscious I waited for him to come
war. The council had put up advertising hoardings, promoting products like Oxo and Persil, to fill the spaces where once there were homes. There had been no attempt to rebuild because the whole dump was scheduled for demolition and redevelopment. Compared with our neighbourhood, Coronation Street looked like Millionaires’ Row. There were always lots of people and noise, and most families seemed to have three or four or more children. I think I was the only lone child in our street. Where the
they beat me, and I never blamed her for this. Instinctively, I knew that she was frightened of causing the same brutal aggression to be directed against herself should she intervene in any way. Granddad’s initial warning to Daddy did not deter him in the slightest. He certainly didn’t stop his attacks on me or on Mammy. They were less frequent, but in no way less violent than before, but now they went on almost exclusively in the privacy of our bedroom. Of course, this didn’t mean that they