I found out my rapist died – then my life unravelled

My early childhood was blissful. I enjoyed glittering Christmases, laughter, and the safety of our secluded house in rural Lancashire. 

My parents treated my siblings and I to adventures – at the age of four, I slept under the stars in Greece, every May half-term was spent in a cottage in Wales and at eleven, I crossed California and Nevada on a Greyhound bus before meeting Mickey Mouse at Disneyland.

It was, by all appearances, a perfect childhood. 

However, adolescence was anything but perfect.

Every Easter since I can remember, a man we knew – who was celebrated for building faith-based orphanages abroad – came to stay with us.

Then, when I was 13 years old, one night in March 1983, he came into my room, placed a knife by my pillow to terrify me into silence and proceeded to rape me. Violently. 

I told no one.

The nightmare wasn’t over after that one time, because the following Easter, he returned to our house and the abuse continued.

It went on for four years during which I became a ghost inside a body I despised. I smiled when I had to and disappeared when I could.

By the time I turned 17, I no longer cared whether he killed me – I had lost all desire to live. One afternoon, the day before he was due to return to Kenya, I came across him in our kitchen. I noticed our bread knife by the sink, so quietly picked it up, walked over to him and pressed the blade against his neck. 

I told him that if he ever touched me again, I would stab him.

At first, he grinned. But when he saw how serious I was, the smile drained from his face. He didn’t say a word. The next day, I carried his bags to the car and watched him drive away.

During the five years that followed, I finally felt safe. I failed and retook my A levels and had four brilliant years at the University of North London (now Metropolitan University).

However, in 1991 I learned he had returned permanently to the UK from his home in Kenya and while I hoped he wouldn’t dare come near me again, my brother was 10 at the time and I feared he may become his next victim.

So, to protect him, I did something that terrified me – I told my parents.

As the words ‘he raped me’ left my mouth, I watched as part of them died in front of my eyes. My parents hadn’t known. They couldn’t have saved me. But guilt crushed them. 

They immediately wanted to report it, but a family friend within the police force advised me against reporting because no one would believe me.

The perpetrator was a respected man employed by the church. I was a broken young man with a story no one wanted to hear.

Plus, without forensic evidence, he’d likely walk free anyway, they said.

Desperate, we reported him to his employers, but they did nothing. I began to come to terms with the fact that I may never get justice.

Aided by my parents, I tried sourcing professional support, but, shockingly, there were no support organisations for male survivors of rape that we could find. 

This led to a downward spiral that saw me fall into an abusive relationship, where I was someone’s punching bag. 

I moved to Thailand in 1998, and in 2002 I received a phone call from my dad who told me the man who raped me had died. Instead of feeling elation, I fell apart, feeling robbed of any justice. 

I became hooked on meth and after two years of addiction I was arrested for drug offences. 

That year, I was jailed in Northern Thailand. Being incarcerated meant I came off meth cold turkey in a concrete box. There was no medical support, no comfort – just pain, sweat, and the sound of my own screaming.

Three weeks into the agony of withdrawal, at the age of 34, I had a visit from my dad at the prison. I was terrified, not only by my surroundings, but also that my dad, who had not seen me in months, may look at me in disgust, unable to find anything left in me worth loving.

As I entered the visit room, I stepped over a dead man. He had choked on food minutes earlier, a few feet away from me. Everyone noticed but no one rushed to move him. Death was such a casual part of life there.

In the visit room, Dad sat facing me, a wall of concrete, iron bars and Perspex separating us. 

He stared at me and smiled. There was no look of disgust, just kindness and compassion. I had always loved my dad, but I do not think I had ever loved him more than I did at that moment.

We had two amazing hours together, but when the guard told us time was up, I lost it. I punched the Perspex between us and screamed: ‘Please don’t forget about me Dad! Please don’t forget about me!’

He didn’t. 

My amazing dad started an awareness campaign, giving interviews in newspapers and asking people to write to me. Whilst he had not been able to save me from the rapist, he could save me from being forgotten. 

Ten days later, a postcard arrived from France.

‘I don’t know you. You don’t know me. But I saw your father’s message online. I would like you to know that I won’t forget about you. Love from a mother.’

Then came the next letter. And the next. Hundreds and hundreds of letters from countries I’d never visited, from people. I’d never met. All saying the same thing: you are not forgotten.

Learning of my plight, backpackers, retirees and expats visited me. They brought books, food, and conversation. They carried snapshots of the world I could not see, and with it, they brought hope.

Two years later I was awarded an early release from jail. But even though I had my freedom back, I was still not free of my past.

Unable to suffer the pain and terror of PTSD anymore in 2017, 35 years after first being abused, I telephoned We Are Survivors – the largest male survivor specific support service in the UK for those who have experienced sexual harms, after I found out about them online.

Through peer group support, creative activities such as storytelling and art, and several courses of one‑to‑one therapy, We Are Survivors helped me rebuild my life. 

Connecting with other male survivors showed me how others navigated their trauma, while creative spaces revealed my talent as a writer – with that came renewed ambition.

And over six years of their ground‑breaking, survivor‑led support, I was able to feel, laugh, trust, live and find joy again.

And today, life has come full circle. I now work at We Are Survivors helping other men break free of silence and shame and find their own sense of joy, purpose and safety. Because, sadly, my story is just one of many.

According to police-recorded sexual offence victims by gender data published by ONS November 2025, 10% of recorded rapes are against males with boys aged 10-14 making up 27% of male sexual assault victims.  

I’m glad to say that the specialised support available for men has improved in England and Wales since I was raped, but it’s still woefully inadequate and underfunded.

That’s what I want to see change next.

Because support for survivors can save lives. It certainly saved mine. 

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jessica.aureli@metro.co.uk. 

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