Take it from a survivor – paedophile jokes are never funny

Walking home from the pub on Christmas Eve, my blood suddenly ran cold.

This always happens when someone uses childhood sexual abuse (CSA) as a cheap gag. But to have a family member make light of such a topic – especially in a conversation about why I will never have children – hurt even more.

‘At least if you don’t want kids, you never need to worry about you being a paedophile, eh?’ they’d quipped.

To them it was a ‘meaningless joke’. But for me, it triggered a series of nightmares that loomed over me for the rest of the Christmas period.

The punchline brought me back to the worst years of my life, torturing me with vivid flashbacks and night terrors.

So while I’ve long made peace with my decision not to have kids – it would kill me to see them go through what I endured as a child – I’m tired of pretending to accept these jokes.

I’m not being sensitive. These kinds of comments normalise abuse. Perpetuating them contributes to the epidemic of CSA that allows 1 in 4 children to become victims. That has to stop.

When a family friend started grooming me at age seven, I knew it was weird for a grown man to make a child his confidante, but I didn’t have the language to speak up.

Over time, he pulled me into a dark web of grooming and sexual abuse and gradually I learned to maintain a mask for everyone else, while drowning in grief on the inside.

As I secretly wrestled with the abuse, paedophile jokes were flying in the classroom.

Even in primary school, quips about paedos and nonces were rampant and teachers rarely intervened; some even laughed along.

Everyone seemed unaffected by the reality they were mocking but as a child experiencing what everyone was making light of, I didn’t see the funny side of it. Instead, I internalised the unspoken message that this is normal, and it’s not serious. So I laughed along to fit in.

Of course, the only person responsible for my abuse is my abuser, but paedophile jokes provided the script to silence me for years. It contributed to my belief that the abuse, in my abuser’s words, ‘wasn’t anything to worry about’.

The only hint I got of how abusive this person was happened when he directly asked me if it was OK to touch me – a sick tactic many abusers use to make children feel responsible for their abuse – but the combination of the grooming and the jokes convinced me to bury my experiences.

I wouldn’t escape the abuse until nearly three years later when the family friend lost access to me because I stopped spending time at his house. 

When it stopped, I felt relieved that I got my physical freedom back but I didn’t truly understand what I was a victim of until my teens.

My realisation was a slow burn at first, triggered by numerous things, like mentions of abuse in PSHE classes in high school and storylines on soaps. However, when my mum read my diary at age 13, I realised just how severe it was. Her horror broke the dam of silence.

She believed me instantly, encouraging me to explain what had happened so I could report it. That was the moment everything clicked and it shook me to my core to realise that I was a victim.

I didn’t want to be associated with that word; I wanted to be a normal kid without any worries, but my abuser stole that possibility.

Dealing with the social services only exacerbated my anxiety and depression because they pushed me not to bother pursuing it in court, telling me I’d likely not win a case.

Even though my abuser admitted to most of my accusations to the social worker who questioned him, I decided not to pursue charges because I thought it would re-traumatise me. 

I couldn’t bear the thought of going to court only to lose and watch him walk free.

Yet, the guilt of not putting him in prison because I dropped the case and leaving others vulnerable to his abuse crucified me, delaying my recovery even further.

At 14, my mum encouraged me to go to therapy. But I wasn’t ready, only managing one session before descending into an eight-year cycle of self-harm and substance abuse.

Eventually, I broke that self-destruct cycle after opening up to my mum and my first boyfriend.

As I’ve grown into adulthood, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I have complex PTSD – a type of PTSD that occurs after repeated or prolonged trauma – and gaining an understanding of how long-term trauma has changed the pathways in my brain has enabled me to confront it head-on.

There’s no doubt those few years in childhood irrevocably changed my sexuality and my understanding of consent, making me more vulnerable to other types of abuse. But I’ve learned to counteract these effects with compassion, self-love, and eternal self-development.

Despite my progress though, I’m still horrified by the commonality and normality of paedophile jokes.

I’ve pledged to start challenging these kinds of ‘jokes’ whenever I hear them

Society gaslit me into silence with punchlines, mocking mine and countless others’ experiences for entertainment. I refuse to continue aiding and abetting these sick jokes.

That’s why I confronted the person who triggered my worst memories over Christmas. I told them I would walk away if they ever did that to me again.

They were understanding yet dismissive in that they claimed they could not police it while drunk. I now avoid being around them when alcohol is involved.

More generally though, I’ve pledged to start challenging these kinds of ‘jokes’ whenever I hear them.

Sometimes that means I will respond by describing, in detail, the exact memory that they’ve triggered in exchange for a s****y joke. If I’m uncomfortable, then you can be, too.

I don’t always have the energy to lecture whenever someone makes one of these comments though; on those occasions I stonewall instead.

I don’t laugh and I ask why they think that’s funny. And, when they finish their weak explanation, I tell them that if they’d ever met a psychopathic paedophile, they wouldn’t find it so amusing.

When I do this, most people react awkwardly, either changing the subject or trying to joke their way out of it. I think being confronted with their own stupidity makes them less likely to challenge me on it. No one wants to fight for their ‘right’ to make paedophile jokes.

Childhood sexual abuse impacts every subsection of society, regardless of gender, race, religion, class, or ethnicity, and it traumatises people into silence. Yet, instead of empowering survivors to speak up, we’re driving them back into the darkness by laughing at them.

Our flippancy as a society allows abuse to fester by relegating it to the underbelly of society where no one can confront it, which is what abusers want.

To truly combat this we need survivors to feel empowered to speak up and to know that we believe them and won’t trivialise their experiences for a cheap punchline.

Survivors shouldn’t have to slink off to cry in the toilets or sit in grim silence while people make light of our trauma. Which is why I’ve recruited my family and friends to challenge these jokes with me, and I encourage you to do the same.

It’s up to all of us to say ‘no more’ and remember: When you speak up, you’re also speaking up for every other survivor.

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

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