A Mother’s Love – My Childhood Abuse Survival Story
Before I start this, this is going to be a tough read, not only for my friends, family and people that love me but for people who don’t even know me. When I decided to create this blog I decided to be open and honest about everything I have experienced in my life, the reason for this? Well, it’s simple, to help others. I’m not an expert and I will never claim to be, but I’m a survivor and I’ve done it my way, whether my way is right or wrong. I am not going to apologise if this post upsets you because to be blunt about it, this was my life.
Okay… if I am totally honest, I’m shitting myself about writing this because I still suffer from night terrors and struggle daily with my PTSD. I suppose I’m worried what deep, dark, demonised doors I am going to open in my mind that I have closed and blanked out. I am doing this for the greater good and I know that, but I suppose you can’t help, but be absolutely terrified when writing something like this.
I was born in 1987 in the Jubilee, Belfast at 3:15am on a Saturday morning, I was forced into the world by those lovely wee salad tongs for women’s vagina’s that are lovingly called “forceps”. I was born with a birth defect which I talk about in my other blog post “My Journey to Facial Happiness”. I was brought home to the first family home in North Belfast, three doors down from my grandparents and two doors down from a lady who became like a third grandmother to me and whom I lovingly call “MeMe”.
I don’t remember much about my time there, just that I seemed to get sick a lot and I have a reoccurring dream of me waving goodbye to the house and feeling relief wash over me, I was only about 3 or 4 when we moved from there to the house I now call the House of Horrors. I was an only child until I was 10, my parents separated when I was around 6, I remember mother telling me that my dad was playing mind games and he’d be home, soon. Every night I cried myself to sleep, thinking I’d wake up and my dad would be living with us, again.
My dad was amazing, he would be there when I woke up and would carry me downstairs, I don’t think there’s ever been a time I haven’t loved my bed more than school/work. He was forever the doting dad, making sure I was clean and tidy, that I made all my hospital appointments and never left my side during them, he clothed me and made sure I was fed. My mother, on the other hand, was a different story, for a long time she hid her alcoholism well, but I knew where she hid her bottles and what happened when no one was around.
This is where things get difficult for me to talk about, I don’t remember when it started, or when I noticed her drinking, but I remember the screaming, the witnessing of her treatment towards my dad who never raised a hand or a voice to her from what I remember. I was a small child, very quiet, had a lot of friends, though. Although I remember always being okay in my own company, I had an invisible friend, her name was “Muck” (I’ve no idea why she was called Muck, but she was…)
A few times I thought she was real, she’d always be dressed the same way, a short bowl cut, dirty fair hair, a little Sailor Moon type top (this was before Sailor Moon was even a thing), white shorts and tennis shoes. She’d stand at the bottom of my bed, or appear when I was on my own outside to check on me. Clearly, I had a decent imagination for a child.
I digress, the abuse, it started with witnessing the violence from my mother towards my dad, moving on to me, she’d often scream at me if I did anything she considered wrong, I’m sure I was a normal child, probably getting dirty, I was a tomboy so there’s no doubt in my mind it was normal childhood reasons , more than likely being way too dirty for being a girl.
When dad moved, I assume (my memories seem so foggy, or as if they are behind a wall of black) my bedtime went to shit, or definitely got later. My aunt moved in for a while, she told me she knew of mother’s drinking and moved in so that she could keep me safe. If only she knew… I’m not ready to go into full details, but the house, I drive past that house often and it sets off the large pit in my stomach that seems to slowly torment me before turning into a full panic attack. I’m wise to it now, so I avoid it if I can or drive past it quickly without looking.
I was raped in that house by someone I’m not ready and will never be ready to name. My innocence lost at 7 years old. Mother drank a lot, vodka was her choice of poison, having moved on from whisky/brandy. She would hide it under the sink, in cupboards behind boxes, in the hotpress between the towels, in the dirty washing basket and anywhere else she could think of. When my aunt moved in, she took my room, which meant I had to sleep in the same room as mother, the bed where I was raped. No one noticed any changes in me, because even then I was wise enough to hide the torture, pushing it down in my mind until I almost forgot it, almost.
Mother took the opportunity of me being her bed-mate to tell me that my dad was having an affair with a woman, that he was playing mind games and that his new partner was poison. My memories are foggy, but I do remember she brainwashed me into thinking the woman I now call “mum” was evil and was keeping our family apart.
My aunt’s boyfriend bought me a puppy, I was absolutely overjoyed, I mention this puppy because what I’m going to talk about next, centres around him. He was a gorgeous little pup, so tiny, but my goodness could that little man POOP! I took responsibility for picking up and disinfecting his poop, I was no more than 7 years old, but had full responsibility for a little baby dog. I don’t remember mother holding or cuddling him, she did yell at him, I feel like she did smack him when he was bad and I’d cry and run to protect him. I forgot to mention above if she screamed at me it was more than likely followed with a nice big whollop. Hard enough to bring tears, but not enough to cause bruising, she was too smart for that.
Another time, this memory is burned into my mind forever, she was so drunk, she fell down the stairs with my pup in her arms. I woke up to the sound of my pup scream as he slammed against the front door. I ran out of mother’s bedroom and seen her, drunk, legs in the air with dirty knickers on and a nightdress, then I seen my poor little pup lay against the door, shivering and whimpering, I ran so fast down those stairs and scooped him up. I comforted him and checked to see if anything was broken, he seemed winded, again, I was 7 years of age, 7! I walked a few steps upstairs, mother must have passed out as she came to when I was going upstairs with my pup.
She called out to me asking me to help pick her up, this woman was 5ft and weighed whatever someone weighs if they’re a size 24 and 5ft. I told her “no”, defiant? Maybe, or maybe even at 7 years old, I was sick of her shit and sick of being bullied and attacked by her. She screamed at me about being a selfish cunt, caring more about the dog than her, I told her that I did care more about the dog than her, I was fiercely protective of my pup, looking back I was a Mumma Bear, even at 7 years of age.
She screamed at me again to help her up, I responded: “no, you’re too heavy for me to lift you”. I ran upstairs after that with my terrified pup and left her there, screaming I was a selfish cunt and other obscenities at her 7-year-old. Around this time mother, as I mentioned above, had brainwashed me about my “mum”, she was also working on me where my dad was concerned. I never remember mother being a cuddly person, maybe I wasn’t a cuddly child, she would pretend to be a Mumma Bear if the doctors hurt me (surgeries, etc) because she had an audience. My dad though, me and my dad loved a cuddle, even now, I’m 31 and I love a good cuddle with my dad.
So, she began working in the nearby shop, my dad would still come to see me, take me out to the cinema and shopping. I’d never mention anything about mother doing anything, I’d been threatened long ago, “daddy will go to jail because I will tell them daddy beats me.” Mother 1994.
I did tell dad about the pup, I was worried about him, I can’t remember if dad took him to the vets to get him checked, but I’m sure he did as I seemed to not be worried about him after telling dad. Mother told him, too, she neglected to say she was drunk when she fell downstairs, of course, why tell the truth? Lies came so easy to her.
My dad would give mother money, quite a lot of money as he would give it to me because he could no longer stand to be around her. So on top of working in the shop (cash in hand), benefits, borrowing from the Provident man, his name was Jim and he was a lovely man, (but she ran rings around him and would get me to answer the door to a complete stranger and lie to his face that she wasn’t there, or close the blinds and make me hide, pretending it was a game). She also got money from dad, I have £80 in my head (per week), but I don’t know if that’s true or just a random number.
She would fill the cupboards, but I wasn’t allowed to touch the tins in the cupboard, I’d have to ask to have food from the fridge and I remember I would drink vinegar, I don’t think because I was hungry, but just because I liked the taste, “It’s sterile and I like the taste!” – name that movie.
I would be made to study during the summer months, I also forgot to mention she babysat my two long-term friends who I’ll name B&B. So, she also got money from that, but would always claim to have no money. MeMe would give her money, too. Looking back now I know the money was spent on vodka, now I’m not talking a little quarter bottle, I’m talking the biggest bottle of Smirnoff you have ever seen. This would last her two or three days. She would also drink at the weekends with my aunt and her friends, or mother’s sisters, they would party into the wee hours, but I slept through and I loved having my aunt there, I loved having my cousin’s there, too from mother’s side. We were very close, but again, no one knew what was happening to me.
By the time I was 8 mother had me convinced that dad was refusing her money, that her money was being dropped and he was being verbally abusive to her. Again, I was an 8-year-old child who was in school from 9am – 3pm. My school was a good mile from where I lived, I was a good student, mother would meet me at the bottom of the hill which was about halfway to my mother’s house. I bring this up because dad found out, my mum had seen me walking home alone, she didn’t know mother was at the end of the hill, she was obviously concerned, I was 8 years of age so she was well within her right to be concerned. Dad lost his shit and thus began her plan to ruin my dad’s life.
She convinced me to move to Manchester, away from dad, leaving my pup behind. I was devastated, she even had my aunt (my dad’s sister) it was a good idea. Dad had no idea, thought we were going for two weeks, found out when he entered the empty house to collect my pup. I never saw my pup, again. He was killed by a car a few weeks later, I will never forgive mother for that and even now as a 31-year-old woman I burst into tears when I think of it.
She would torment my dad on the phone, screaming he was threatening her, my resentment towards dad was paramount at this point because I was brainwashed. She had her brothers convinced, too. I think they knew deep down she was fucked in the head. Her drinking got worse, the flat we lived in was filthy, I don’t remember there being food in the fridge, but the tins were always there and I wasn’t allowed to touch them, I never did as I was pretty sure she counted them. I went to a Catholic school, I’m not Catholic, I’m Protestant, had I been in Belfast…jesus… this was when the Troubles were still rife.
Due to the filth, I got so sick, my whole mouth and throat were covered in ulcers, she blamed a coke tin, my uncle, although he never told her, blamed the filth I was being “dragged up” in. Well, she didn’t raise me, I raised myself. I remember being VERY medicated and shivering, but I was practically sweating. No A&E, I don’t know if the doctor came out or not, I did recover, I don’t know what dad was told, but I recovered. My school was a normal clothed school and I met some of the best people in my life and will always treasure the memories. I fit in well, although looking back I was dressed horribly.
We moved back to Belfast after living away for a year because my uncle shot himself, he was a Sergeant in the RIR, no one knows why he did it, we’re all still haunted by it. It was my first experience with the paranormal and ghosts (he came to me in a dream and told me to look after mother as she was going to get sick, I also witnessed him walking through her bedroom door).
Dad was delighted to have me home, and despite what mother had done, I was glad to see him. He had kept all my birthday and Christmas presents, I well up now when I picture his face watching me opening my presents. My poor, kind-hearted, amazing dad, I hope he’s forgiven me for leaving him. He would take me to visit my cousins, but wanted me to come to his house, he was now living with mum who unbeknownst to me was pregnant with my little brother.
I found out when I was at my cousin’s, mum called in to see dad and I happened to look out the window, I saw her and my now 10-year-old self-hadn’t seen a pregnant woman before. So I yelled “fat bitch” out the window at her, my cousin followed my lead. My dad came rushing upstairs and demanded to know why I said that, I told him what mother had told me about mum being poison. Dad was angry and told me she wasn’t fat, she was pregnant and the baby was his.
Dad told mother about what had happened, no doubt they argued. I told mother what had happened, too. She said I was right, that mum was a “fat bitch” and the baby was a “bastard”. I didn’t know what that meant, she explained it to me. She didn’t abuse me for a while after that.
I remember the first time I met mum, I can’t remember whether my brother was born or not, I finally agreed after months of my dad begging me to go to his house, for him. He probably couldn’t afford to keep taking me places and like me, didn’t like clocking in other people’s houses. I’m very like my dad both in looks and personality and I’ll be forever grateful for that.
I went to the house they lived in at the time, we had a Chinese, my aunt (my dad’s sister and my favourite aunt on his side of the family), I spent the whole time with my back to mum. I feel like such a cunt, now for doing that. She was obviously really heartbroken and my mum is the best mum in the world, there I go again, crying…
Mother continued to try and poison my mind against mum and dad. She would often play my feelings towards mum and dad off me. She would say things like “how could you like her, she’s the devil. You broke my heart going to his house.” Anytime I would go she’d ask me questions, what I had to eat, was she a better cook than mother, was her house a mess, was she still ugly. My mum is beautiful, just FYI. My mother was also beautiful back in the day, pity she was a complete psychopath. I would often tell mother what she wanted to hear to please her and to avoid her emotional abuse.
She physically beat me most mornings with a brush on my head, I don’t mean taps, I mean WHOLLOPS, have you seen the trick people do where they put a wooden spoon in their mouths and have to tap the others? Mother was the one who was in on the trick, she brought that brush down with such a whollop. I stopped crying, I think I stopped crying when I lost my uncle, I didn’t cry again until I was 18 and lost one of my aunt’s to cancer.
There was also the time she went to the bar because she ran out of vodka, this was when we lived in HH1. The bar wasn’t that far away from where we lived, but to a small child who wasn’t used to being out late at night, it seemed really long. She could have left me in my warm bed, but decided not to as mother of the year thought to take me with her and leaving me outside for what felt like hours to my tiny self. I had started crying as I was scared and on my own, she’d told me not to move and of course I did as I was told, a man had come up to me and asked me where my mummy and daddy where. I pointed to the bar and he asked mother’s name, so I told him. He must have gone in and given her a piece of his mind as she was not a happy bunny when she came out. I was so happy to see her that I started hyperventilating and I got my very first slap across the face, I was 6.
I don’t remember much more about childhood, just a mixture of a lot of screaming, beating, lying to please mother, trying to keep dad sweet, being infatuated with my little brother and his scurf (cradle cap for those non-Norn Iron peeps). He wasn’t a bad baby, he did cry, but mostly he’d let me pick his scurf no bother, unless I scratched a bit too hard, never on purpose. Dad would scold me but laugh mostly that I was so mesmerised by his “baby dandruff”.
I did my 11+, I passed, I wanted to go to Belfast High, dad agreed that I was an intelligent kid, I read a shit tonne of books as it was my escape from mother and she’d leave me alone. I’d often hear her on the phone, though, gushing how perfect a child I was, how intelligent I was to anyone who’d listen. She’d sometimes be kind and say it to me when drunk or sometimes sober, but most of the time it was the usual yelling. Sorry, digressing again, so mother decided I wouldn’t go to Belfast High, I’d go to my local high school. Another thing I’ll never forgive her for. I was devastated, I think dad was too, but more so for me. He made sure I’d everything I needed and always had the best Kicker shoes for school. and best gear (tracksuits, clothes, trainers, etc.) Pretty sure dad is to blame for my love of stationery, him and my precious Nanny.
I don’t remember much about school if I’m honest, or my teenage years until we moved to House of Horrors 2 (HH2). I don’t know what age I was, but where we lived before was 5 minutes from my local school, HH2 was 30 minutes, I walked pretty fast for being 4ft nothing and weighing 5st. Something else to mention, I was 3st for a very, very long time when I was a kid, dropping to 2st when I got those ulcers.
HH2, where I learned to fight back and fight like fuck. Mother was also good at getting me the best of stuff, mostly because she wanted me to favour her over mum and dad, I never did, but I didn’t tell her that for a very long time. She still had her tins in her cupboard, I couldn’t touch. My breakfast most mornings was stale bread with brown sauce and water. I was lucky I got free school meals and dad would give me money for break time.
I’ve a memory of being 10, sorry going back a bit, this post will be all over the show, but it’s because my memories come and go and I try to write them as they come back to me. We were at the doctor’s, think she was trying to get DLA so was calming to be depressed and self-harming, wanted me to tell the Disability Assessor I had witnessed her self-harming, I did, she didn’t get DLA and for reasons that blow my mind, now Social Services weren’t called to check on me “witnessing” her self-harming.
Anyways, we were at the doctor’s, my stomach was killing me, she thought it was just a dodgy tummy. Told me to go to the loo, I did. She went to see her GP and I spent the whole 10 minutes she was in with her doctor in the loo, much to the anger of the other patients. She knocked on me when she was done, telling me to hurry up. I stood up, hadn’t pooped, then I noticed the blood, there was a lot of it. I wiped and wiped, then used toilet roll as a pad, I’d just taken my first period. God forbid I got blood on my knickers, she’d whip me.
I told her what happened when I came out, she told me not to be stupid as I was too young to take a period. She also decided she would walk home, it was winter time so was dark early. We lived almost two hours away from the doctor’s, I begged her to get a bus or taxi, she walked on the opposite side of the road to where the buses would pick us up, there didn’t seem to be any, but to be fair I was too busy trying not to collapse in pain.
By the time we got home, I was ghostly white, the pain was unreal, I went upstairs and the blood was in the tissue, I yelled and yelled until she came up and I showed her. She seemed delighted, finally believing I’d taken my period. She got me a pad and then went to call my Nanny to tell her the “good news, you’re becoming a woman, Nicole. My wee daughter is becoming a woman.” No mention of the two hours walking in pain, don’t even think about an apology, are you on crack? Her? Apologise? Naw, son. She also called my dad to tell him, probably negotiating more money as I’d need pads and she’d need to buy them. To be fair, I was never short of those.
I matured early, I remember looking down in the bath and noticing my chest was “lumpy” when I touched it, it hurt. Mother told me the pain was growing pains and it wasn’t “lumps”, it was my boobs. I was 10 and a half and developing boobs.
HH2, so I went to the local school, I was in the top class luckily, I kept my head down and studied. Mother began working for a local “delivery” place, I put delivery in quotation marks as that’s not what her real job was, again, I’m protecting others. I was 12, I was a 12-year-old girl left alone in a two storey house on my own. My dad lost his shit, rightly so. Don’t know how she talked him round, probably saying I was smart enough not to set the house alight. I would spend my time on the computer, talking to people on the internet.
Her drinking got worse, but she didn’t hide it anymore unless she was babysitting. We fought like crazy, she’d often call me selfish and worthless and the usual self-deprecating things people say to you when they think you’re a piece of shit. She’d come home from work around 3am, she’d work from 5pm, so night shift. She’d drink herself unconscious and often piss herself, sometimes she’d leave the oven on and I’d wake up to thick smoke. I’d have to take “sick days” as my uniform would reek of smoke that wasn’t the cigarette kind. Mother did smoke, though.
I was around 10 when I saw my first horror film, IT. The only film I was ever terrified of, after that I moved onto the Texas Chainsaw Massacre films and my love of horror was born. I still read a tonne of books and would spend ages in the library after school trying to find “Goosebumps” books I hadn’t read. I loved those, I moved onto Chills, before moving on to adult horror, I was around 13 at this point. This became another escape for me.
Mother wouldn’t bother me most of the time unless I had to slap her awake because she nearly set the house on fire, how she didn’t, I don’t know. Weekends we’d fight like fuck, I’d go to dad’s or avoid her by staying in my room or sitting with my headphones on. My cousin’s started to come down and sit to drink and smoke when I was around 14 – 15, I think. She’d pick on me in front of them, saying I was weird or boring or just make fun of me. I knew what she was doing, but she would pretend to joke, I was blessed with my dad’s humour so I often fired back, it did look like a mother and daughter kidding around, but I knew she meant what she said.
I had my first consensual sexual experience when I was 16, it was a one night stand with a guy I met at a bar. Yes, a bar, I was 16 and going to bars, I was also smoking. Was I off the rails? No, I could drink like a fish, but the first time I ever remember being drunk was mother’s funeral and that was after four bottles of red wine, I knew my limits, even at 16 and my mates would often be too wasted to even realise when I stopped. So, yeah, I was 16. No one gave me the sex talk, no one sat me down and explained what happened, yet I knew exactly what to do, lucky me?
One of mother’s sister’s who I had a hostile relationship with at the best of times (she is also a psycho, must be a family thing *shrug*) gave me my first experience of drugs, I was 16, I think, in her house after partying, she offered me a Miller beer, Miller tastes like piss water, but I remember feeling so sick after only having a few sips, I felt so sick and so whoozy. I vomited all over her toilet and told her I had to go home. My drink was spiked, I am assuming by her sister. She promised not to tell mother and it was “our little secret”.
I told mother, years later, that caused some shit… by the time I was 16 I was angry as fuck, I watched a lot of wrestling, still loved horror and could quote most of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre films off by heart, pretty sure Rob Zombie had made his movies, too and I remember the Devil’s Rejects being one of my favourite films until Saw came out and took its crown, Scream was for kids, bear in mind, I was a fucking kid. So yeah, a lot of violence in my childhood and a lot of violence (some optional) in my teenage years.
At school though, I was an angel. I got in two fights, both outside of school, I blacked out in both of them, but had to be pulled off by my elder cousin’s because I was going to “smash their faces to a pulp”. I remember nothing of either of those fights, other than my cousins holding me by both arms and my hands being covered with blood that didn’t belong to me. Am I proud of this? Absolutely not, would I do it, again? Probably… it takes a lot to make me snap, I lived with mother for 17 years, so I’ve the patience of a saint, if I snapped enough to fight someone then there was a reason for it, pretty sure both times I was beating up the girls who were bullying my younger cousins. To this day those two girls won’t look me in the eye, I don’t blame them. I’m not gloating, either.
I had a few boyfriends before I met my now husband, my relationship with my dad was.. okay, I guess. I was a teenage girl, I was hormonal and I preferred the company of my mates or computer than I did either of my parents. I remember being so numb for so many years, I felt nothing, I didn’t cry, especially when mother attacked me, she’d escalated to two bottles of vodka a day at this point, I’d never hit her back, just shove her away from me.
I was dating my now husband for 3 days when we “did the deed”. Again, my association with sex was that I enjoyed it, but I didn’t care who I did it with. I did feel ashamed, though, I always remember feeling horrendous guilt after sex, I felt I shouldn’t have enjoyed it because of what happened when I was younger. I still feel like that, but it’s a lot less than when I was younger.
I don’t remember when my husband first witnessed mother abusing me, he never said anything in the beginning, but I could tell he wasn’t fond of her. He spent a good 6 evenings with me, I’ve never asked if it was to protect me or just because we were teenagers and had A LOT of sex.
Mother got worse, she’d started to strip naked whilst drunk and I’d come home from university, yes I made it to university, not only to a university but to one of the top universities in the U.K. and Ireland. She’d be passed out drunk, having pissed herself, on the kitchen floor. My dad had no idea, I told him nothing, everything was grand and husband was sworn to secrecy. I’m not going to lie, I played sports when I was younger so I got a good bit of pent-up anger out through that, but when I’d come home and see her like that and my dog (my Honey, who I got when I was 15), running the streets, I’d lose it. Honey was my world, if she went missing then mother was getting my anger. I’d sometime boot her really hard in the butt, I’d learnt from her to hide it where no one would look and no one would be looking at her drunk ass, but me.
This went on for years, I moved out and into my own place when I was 17, but she would take Honey as she “missed” her whilst I was at uni or work. She had that smell, you know the smell that alcoholics have? If not, next time you pass one, take a sniff. Her whole house stunk of it and Honey would reek when she came home from her house so I used to try and wipe her down with baby wipes or bath her.
I can’t recall what happened the night mother realised she could never hit me, again. I just remember her arguing with my hubby, him taking off and her telling me to choose him or her, whilst holding on to me so I couldn’t go after him. She’d try and poison my mind against him, I’ll never say out loud what she would say about him as hubby doesn’t know, the only people that know are mother and me, mother is dead and I’ll take it to my grave.
I remember getting out of her grasp, despite not long before this night having my left arm wrapped around the stair railing until there was a snap. I thought she’d broken my arm, I guess I’ll never know. Anyways, my left arm hurt like hell especially when she grabbed it, but I got out of it and shoved her, she shoved me back and was screaming the usual at me, telling me he’d leave me, I was worthless, I was a selfish bitch and so on. Sorry if me saying this so nonchalant triggers anyone, I think it’s because this was normal for me, this was my all day every day, ya know?
She shoved me, again, this time by the shoulders, I don’t remember what she said, I’m ashamed of what I’m about to say… I punched her in the face. I don’t remember what happened after, but hubby came back to me later as I was crying because I’d disrespected mother by punching her in the face, I’d never hit her before, only shoving her away. I was absolutely devastated, why? I’d hit my mother, that was the absolute biggest disrespect in my book, despite everything she was my mother. Yes the house was an ice cube unless she wanted the heating on, yes she abused me and neglected me, but she was my mother. I’m struggling writing this, not because of the flashbacks and the absolute guarantee I’ll have night terrors, but because I’m embarrassed and I feel like I’m blackening her name, maybe I’m absolutely mental, I don’t know.
She never hit me again, though. However, she found other ways to torment me, waking me up in the middle of the night by pretending to have a knife in her hand and doing the slash movements that you see in horror films. She said she’d do it as a joke to annoy me and would tell my cousins, I just thought she was sick in the head.
I remember getting a call when I was on placement/work, I think hubby and I had broken up and I was dating someone else, but mother called me, well I thought it was her. The neighbours knew mother was an alcoholic, but everyone and I mean everyone turned a blind eye to it. So, I’m on the bus, “mother” calls me, if I didn’t answer I’d be bombarded with messages asking where I was and when I’d be back, bear in mind I no longer lived with her, but she still controlled my life. I answered and said I was on my way back and that I was on the bus. Neighbour A explained it wasn’t mother, but herself, that Honey was in the garden, but mother’s door had been wide open for some time, neighbour A had gone to check on mother as usually the door wasn’t open that long. She’d found mother in a puddle of piss and blood, passed out on the floor of the kitchen, pissed as a fart.
She told me she was going to call an ambulance, I told her not to bother that I’d be home and I’d tend to her when I got there. I asked neighbour A to close the kitchen door and bring Honey in for me. I heard the pity in neighbour A’s voice, for me, and for some reason, it made me even angrier than I already was, I was 19 years of age, I was studying, I was working 2 jobs and I was sick of babysitting this woman. She got money from me, she got clothes, mobiles, took credit out in my name, you name it she got it, all so I could live what I thought was a more peaceful life, still full of her controlling me, but at least it would stop her “whinging” all the time.
I got back, neighbour A’s curtains were twitching, well they must have been as she seen me coming. She asked if I needed help and looked at me with such pity, I honestly thought my head was going to explode with anger at this point. I told her sharply I’d been cleaning her up for years and this was no different, thanked her for ringing me and telling her to go home.
I got into the house, greeted my precious Honey bun and let her out. I went into the kitchen and there she was all 5ft size 18 of her, butt ass naked, surrounded by piss, pretty sure she’d also taken her period, passed out drunk on the kitchen floor. She’d hit her nose on the metal part of the oven, which FYI was still fucking on, well-done neighbour A. I looked at her nose and it looked broken, so I did something I suggest no one else ever does when they come across someone butt ass naked, passed out with a broken nose, I twisted it back into place again. I’ll never forget the feeling of it, she didn’t even wake up.
I cleaned around her best I could and cleaned her nose up, the bleeding had stopped, but there was a big cut from where she’d hit it. I gave a quick boot to the ass to check she was alive and she groaned, so I took Honey, closed the front door, locked it, left and went home. She rang me the following day and asked half-jokingly if I’d hit her again, I told her what had happened and how disgusted I was and she started to cry. I hated hearing her or seeing her cry, it’s a natural instinct of mine to protect someone when they cry, I don’t know why, but I just want to cuddle them and make them okay. She gave the usual guilt trip, “you must be so embarrassed to call me your mum”. Bitch! You have no idea!!
Okay… so as I write this it’s 3:21 am and just as I wrote the word “Bitch!” my fire alarm went off for no reason, I feel like this is mother’s way of warning me so I’m going to wrap this up pronto and hide under my blankets with my other dog.
Mother passed away in 2011 as a result of her long-term alcohol problem. I was finally free, or so I thought. I did what every “normal” daughter would do and commemorated her anniversary, birthday and Mother’s Day each year with your typical, gushy post about “best mum in the world.” I felt I had to like if I didn’t someone would judge me, who? I’ve no idea… what I find funny is that I usually couldn’t give two shits if you like me or not. You should see me on Twitter, I’m a riot.
I did grieve, well my version of grieving which was blocking it out and drinking too much (like mother, like daughter). Did I have an alcohol problem? No, was I aware that two bottles of wine a night was a piss take? Yes! I soon wised up when my size 10 jeans turned into size 16’s and it has taken me almost 3 years to get back to a size 10. I don’t drink very often, if at all anymore.
Like I said in the beginning, I’m publishing this to let you know, you aren’t alone. Has what my mother did ruined my life? For the past two years, yes. Is she going to continue to ruin my life from beyond the grave, is she fuck! I’m a strong ass woman, I’ve been through hell and I’m going to bounce back and swing punches on my way to the top of my mental health, again.
I realise that moving out at 17 was a lucky escape, I have my aunt to thank for that, it’s the best thing she has ever done for me and I’ll always be grateful to her. She managed to get me a council flat, there was a lot of questions about Social Services getting involved due to my age, but my aunt managed to convince them it wasn’t needed and that I was mature enough to handle living on my own. My now hubby also lived with me and we paid everything on time, I loved that little flat, you couldn’t swing a cat in it, but it was our first proper place together with our two dogs.
There are so many more memories that I could share, but I just don’t think some of them are appropriate for my readers as I think reading this is upsetting enough. I’d like to thank everyone who took the time to read my blog on losing Honey, it killed me more to write that than it did to write this.
I look at the person I am because of all I overcame, am I weird? Yep, but I’m happy to be weird. I say weird, I’ve an overwhelming huge obsession for horror and true crime stories. I love listening to Corpse Husband and Lazy Masquerade read stories from 4Chan and Reddit. My hubby hates anything horror related, I remember when we went to see the reboot of Halloween (it was shit) and it was just too gory for him, we were holding hands and he had to stop holding my hand as he just couldn’t understand why my eyes were glued to the screen.
I think, if I can be brutally honest, that I’m desensitised to A LOT because of what I witnessed as a child. I often refer to myself as numb, or unfeeling, as the only thing that really triggers me and breaks me is animal abuse, I cannot watch documentaries like Blackfish. I hate going to the zoo, now, as I disagree with animals being captured and kept in glass cages all their lives, no matter how big their cages are. Don’t get me wrong, I want all Paedophiles put in a large field and have a firing squad consisting of myself and other survivors/survivors families shooting them dead, but I just don’t feel the way other people do about things.
I am very feisty, though, I mentioned me on Twitter, I can hold my own against the trolls, usually. Dad calls me a “wee cheeky face” as I have a terrible habit of using my resting bitch face instead of smiling. I’ve a really wicked sense of humour, though, I’m very laid back, one of my colleagues said to me once that I was so laid back I was almost horizontal. I try not to let the little things phase me, but I’m not perfect and I do forget sometimes that everything isn’t as big of a deal as I think it is, life is a journey and you learn right up until the end of it. I’m at the stage now where I am just embracing it.
There is hope, I’m going back to university in October to finish what I started and become a Forensic Psychologist and also would like to do Child Psychology. Better late than never, I’m going to do it and I’m going to be the best Psychologist this side of the U.K. I’m a volunteer Counsellor for the NSPCC and I’ll spend the rest of my life doing all I can to help children escape the horror’s I witnessed, I’m considering becoming a Foster Carer later down the line, I know I’ll end up getting too attached to the kid and wanting to adopt them, so I want some money behind me for when I do.
There’s hope, I’m with you, we can stand strong, we’ll get there, we’ll survive and we won’t be a product of our childhood. I know I’ll be an amazing mother and I can say that because I’m a lucky godmother to 5 beautiful kids that I adore, plus a fur mummy to Honey and my little man. You don’t have to repeat the mistakes made by your parents or abusers, you can choose to do everything in your power to be the absolute opposite, it’ll be tough, but if you need to talk I’ll always be here.
Mother…I forgive you because I’m a better person than you ever were. I might not forgive you for taking my pup from me, but the abuse I suffered at your hands and by your mouth, I forgive you. I hope wherever you are, you are at peace and whatever demons caused you to harm me, they’ve been taken from you so you can rest easy. Goodbye, mother.