NAAVoices was not created from certainty, but from lived experience and professional insight. As I migrate earlier work from the original platform, this post has been reviewed and approved for transfer. It remains true to its original context, with only minor clarity edits where needed. Some moments do not require rewriting to remain honest.

Another interaction. Another recounting of the last twelve months of hell—never mind the four years of abuse before that. But this time, it wasn’t their conduct that stopped me sleeping.

Investigating Officer 5 attended in person, accompanied by a sergeant from PVP (Protection of Vulnerable People). And this woman… she felt different. Not that I trust any of them right now—but there was something calmer about her. Something that didn’t immediately scream preconceived misconceptions. That alone was a shift.

The morning was chaos. Trying to keep the anxiety under control was anything but easy. I’ve been doing the bathroom up—finally. I waited until the house remortgage was sorted before putting a penny into the property. But after demanding I resolve matters within 56 days, he is now refusing to sign. So here I am, paying over £600 a month more than I should be. Because of course—why not add financial abuse to the list?

After laying the flooring, I pulled up my police document. I’ve recently converted it into a PowerPoint presentation. If the sergeant is charged, I will release it publicly. It currently stands at 76 slides and still doesn’t capture half of what the police response has put me through. It’s taking some doing.

It all became too much. The anxiety about who Investigating Officer 5 might bring with her was overwhelming—particularly knowing that one of her colleagues previously “investigated” the child abuse and did absolutely nothing. But that’s for another post.

I sat crying for well over an hour. Riddled with panic. Usually, if I see or interact with the police, I’m written off for days afterwards. I spoke too fast, went off on tangents, and probably made very little sense. But when they left, I wasn’t left confused, gaslit, or degraded.

I didn’t hear one lie. No victim blaming. No snide references to my mental health. Just honesty. And that—I respect. I’ve never asked the police to dress the truth up or soften it. I never expected to encounter such persistent dishonesty and incompetence from people tasked with upholding the law and protecting others. All I’ve ever wanted is the truth—to give it, and to receive it.

It’s knocking on midnight. I’ve admitted defeat and taken a lorazepam—an as-needed response to a CPTSD flare. I don’t take antidepressants or daily anti-anxiety medication. Just this, when it becomes too much.

Tonight isn’t really about Investigating Officer 5, or the attending PVP sergeant, or even how they treated the children or me. It’s about remembering how shockingly poor the conduct of their colleagues has been.

I am now on Officer 11—face-to-face, not including phone contact. Out of those eleven, two have treated me with any genuine dignity or respect. Both have significantly more experience than the rest put together.

Let’s hope it’s now four.

Today was positive.
But time will tell.

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Disclaimer: This account reflects my personal experience and perceptions at the time; six months later, my assessment of honesty changed again following review of the organisation’s own records.