There were conversations I needed to have. People I couldn’t just spring this on. The hardest conversations were the ones with Mum and Dad. This was their story, too, wasn’t it?

They’d been there from the start, however much sometimes I’d tried to push them away. This man had been a part of their lives as well as the lives of their children. I wasn’t judging them but I was afraid that other people might. I understood the pain and guilt they felt as parents but I’ll never really know how they dealt with that grief and anger together, how they found the strength not to be destroyed by Barry Bennell.

Although I’d talked about my experiences to the police, to therapists and now to [the Guardian’s] Danny Taylor, as a family we never had those conversations. What Bennell had done to us all and the effect on all our lives since: it wasn’t a secret but it wasn’t something we faced up to together either. Now I was planning to put it all out there in the public domain. How would that make them feel?

Dad was dying. There’s only one way things go with motor neurone disease. But he wasn’t gripped tight by the symptoms yet. He could still think straight, could still speak. When I sat down to talk to him and to my mum, it felt like all three of us were taking stock. This is us, isn’t it? Me telling the story, telling the truth about all of it. Are we all right with this now? Their children had always been the most important people in their lives and now Dad was saying: ‘Go on, Andy. Do it.’ It gave me the strength I needed. I knew I had my parents’ support.

The dream that had led me to Bennell had been football. And now I wanted to think about that: as well as having an effect on me, on my family and, perhaps, on other victims, Danny was sure this was going to be a very big deal for the game as well.

How Andy Woodward’s story was published by the Guardian in 2016. Photograph: The Guardian

I had such strong memories of how supportive both Stan Ternent and Neil Warnock had been at Bury and at Sheffield United, all those years ago. I still had their numbers and one evening, during the week before the story came out, I rang them both. When I was playing for them, I knew they both needed to get the most out of me as a player. Now, though, they had no vested interest in what I was doing. I was just a guy – an ex-player – asking for their thoughts and advice. Both of them were adamant: Go on, Woody. Get it done, son. People need to know what’s gone on. The story was being written by a football writer. As well as being about me and about Bennell, it was a story about football.

16 November 2016: I remember I saw the article online before I saw it in a copy of the paper. It was quite shocking to me, in a way, seeing my picture and my words: the truth of it laid out. I think Danny did a great job but, even so, my first reaction was: ‘Oh, fuck, what have I done?’

But that first day of publication was life-changing for me. Maybe for a few other people, too. Online, you can track how many people have read an article. There were a lot. Danny rang me early that morning: ‘Andy, I don’t think you realise how big this is going to be.’ He said the paper had already taken calls from other victims.

This may sound ridiculous but the most important thing in those moments was realising what was happening: people believe me. They believe my story. I remembered my court case against Crewe [suing, unsuccessfully, for damages in 2004]: the feeling of being doubted, trampled over, dismissed. Now it was different. I’d laid it all out: this is what happened to me. We’re all the same, aren’t we? Other people believing in us helps us to believe in ourselves.

The rest of that day and the couple of days after it were incredible. TV, radio, other papers wanting to get in touch. People finding me on social media, wanting to support me, some of them asking for help.

Position of Trust, by Andy Woodward, is published on Thursday. Photograph: Coronet

One call I remember clear as day was from Danny Taylor. Steve Walters, who’d come up to Crewe from Plymouth all those years ago, had rung him at the paper. He needed to tell someone: ‘I was abused, too.’ I was in tears on the phone to Danny when he told me. It was like a dam breaking. For all of us. It had started. I remembered the Christmas that Steve and I spent together at Dove Holes [Bennell’s house]; I knew he had been abused by Bennell. I hadn’t seen him or spoken to him for over 20 years. When I left Crewe, I left everything behind, including friendships. But hearing that Steve had come forward meant everything to me. Knowing that one person had been helped by reading my story in the paper was all the justification I needed for agreeing to do the interview with Danny in the first place. Steve was the first person to come forward. As soon as he did, I knew he wouldn’t be the last.

Hundreds of boys were abused by Bennell. I couldn’t know what damage had been done to their lives but I hope that reading my story made a difference. Steve and others have said to me since that it was seeing my picture, reading my words, that gave them the courage to come forward themselves. ‘It was seeing you, Woody.’

People started getting in touch with me: victims asking for help and advice. It wasn’t just lads from Crewe. Some of them were nothing to do with football at all but they’d all been abused. I was getting calls from the press and from broadcasters.

I don’t know, really, how I dealt with those next few days. I could pick up the phone to Danny, of course. But other than that, I had nowhere to go for advice on how to deal with the attention that came with that first story in the Guardian. I didn’t hear from the Professional Footballers’ Association or the Football Association at all until later on. And not surprisingly, I didn’t hear from Crewe Alexandra, the club that should have been supporting me all along but had decided instead to pretend I didn’t exist.

Among it all, I was contacted by the BBC about going on Victoria Derbyshire’s show. I’d seen the programme and she struck me as someone who would understand my story and recognise why it was important. I thought that if I did a show like that I wouldn’t be under so much pressure to do anything else. I knew that I had to keep going if getting the story out there was going to make a difference. I agreed to go on the show.

As a footballer, I never really suffered from pre-match nerves. I enjoyed the pressure that came with big games. Football focused me. This was different. I’d never known nerves like I felt the day before doing Victoria’s show. It wasn’t so much the thought of going on TV; it was knowing my family would be watching. Friends, too. And people I’d known but not seen for years. I was scared of shocking them or hurting them, I suppose. At the same time, I knew there’d be people watching who needed to hear what I had to say.

Andy Woodward, right, on the BBC’s Victoria Derbyshire show with from left, Jason Dunford, Steve Walters and Chris Unsworth. Photograph: BBC

I met Victoria and the show’s editor, Louisa Compton, in a room at Broadcasting House. We spent half an hour together, talking things through. I knew as soon as I met them that I’d made the right decision. They went through all the questions they were thinking of asking me. They were lovely with me, sympathetic and sincere. I knew I wanted to do it.

At the same time, I’d never been in a situation anything like this before. Almost before I had time to think, I was out on the studio floor. I could feel the heat of the lights on my face. But I was physically shaking: nerves, excitement, a chill in the studio air. I thought of my CBT and just tried to keep my breathing steady and my thoughts under control. Victoria started explaining who I was and what the story was about.

Somehow, I came across pretty calm and composed. It helped that Victoria stayed so focused that she didn’t just ask questions but really listened to my answers. I was churning inside but there is a strength in knowing why you’re doing what you’re doing. Part of it was saying: ‘There, Bennell, you bastard, there’s the truth.’ But, beyond that, it was the chance to say directly to other victims: ‘If something’s happened to you and you need to talk, it’s OK. You can. People will listen.’

No two people are alike and, for some, they have to bury their experience and move on. They can’t let go. But to those who were struggling with what I’d struggled with – the pain, the guilt and the shame – this was my chance to say: ‘I’ve had the courage to come forward, you can too.’

Andy Woodward, aged 10. Photograph: Andy Woodward

Next thing I knew the interview was over and I was back in the green room. I had this overwhelming sense of relief. I’d done what I needed to do. What I’d probably been needing to do for the past 30 years. And people had listened. It was disorienting. As I was leaving the BBC that morning, people were in tears. Complete strangers came up to me and hugged me.

Louisa explained that someone had contacted the show to say they’d been a victim of sexual abuse. They’d been sitting in a dark room that morning, suicide note written. Louisa asked if I’d be OK with being in direct contact with this person.

I assumed it would be a guy about my age, probably connected in some way to football. It turned out, though, this was a 13-year-old boy. He’d been in his bedroom, ready to take his own life, his parents sat unaware downstairs.

The lad had watched the interview and stopped himself. We spoke later on. I told him how glad I was that he’d not gone through with what he’d been planning to do. We talked about what he could do now, about speaking to a doctor, to his parents. To the NSPCC if that was what he needed. ‘You’re not on your own, you know.’

When I think about my own life, that conversation is maybe the single best thing that’s ever happened to me. To be able to have that impact on someone I didn’t even know. Me telling my story had stopped a young guy ending his. Pride’s the wrong word, but it’s an emotion like that. I felt worthwhile, validated, as if I’d been able to do something that really mattered. A life had been saved: listening to me tell my truth made that young lad think again. He’d stepped back from the dark.

© Andy Woodward. Text extracted from Position of Trust by Andy Woodward, which is published on Thursday by Coronet (£17.99)

In the UK and Ireland, Samaritans can be contacted on 116 123 or email jo@samaritans.org or jo@samaritans.ie. In the US, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-8255. In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is 13 11 14. Other international suicide helplines can be found at www.befrienders.org.