I know that not a lot of people see this, that’s ok. I just hope one day someone who needs it might see it.
Let me start with my story. I was born to a drug addict and alcoholic. In fairness, life wasn’t that bad, through their struggles they survived. They functioned. I wouldn’t be so bold as to say they lived.
The first memory I have of this world is of my father beating to my mum to within an inch of her life. I rember the screams. I remember the blood. I remeber the pain but I was too young to coprehand the pain. I remember that sharpness of metal against flesh from the iorn bar he beat her with. I remember my sister, holding me tight as her beat her, holding me close in my Princess bed. Holding me in the dream world of a reality that brutally hit home. I remember waking up in the early hours of the morning to hi having broken in to our seemingly perfect home and my mum telling me to get out of her bed and telling me to go and hide.
To this day I can’t sleep in the dark.
I remember moving away. I remember the visits, the times I thought he had brought me a toy, a gift, when in fact it was empty needles and eer cans.
I remember him disapperaing. We lived hundreds of miles away. Mum was fed up of the broken bones, the pilice, the sirens and the blood.
Mum turned to her only friend, the only one she though understood the hell she had been through. Vodka.
Years this carried on. Being left alone for days on end while she chased the drink. Tried to find a cure to her broken heart. Tried to find something to fill the void within her. AT not just four we left. I never saw him again. Do not mistake this for a story about failed fatherhood. It goes deeper than that.
She drank. We moved house. We moved, I changed schools. Evry time having to justify my sad dispotion. The sadness that surrounded me.
He visited. He stubbed cigarettes out on my legs. It hurt.
My big sister was raped and taken into care, we got to stay ith my nan but quickly returned home Where were social services.? WHo was there. No one. I wasn’t old enough to know how to express what had happened to us.
Mum fell in love again.
Love didn’t last. Love never lasts. He broke more than my father. Emotionally
She took a knife to her wrists.
She drank, whether it was 6am or 6pm. I dreaded coming home from school. The abuse and bullying I faced at school was less painful than the abuse I faced at home. Vodka made her violent.
it was more than I had experienced before. I was covered in blood. She fell down the stairs. She was unconscious on the sofa, I looked after the house. I hated her. She hated life.
She disappeared for days, chasing a love that would never be hers.
Same old shit different fucking day.
Drinking. Morning or night.
I didn’t know how to explain at school that I was a bit weird because every time I went home I would be faced with a violent drunk.
She drove her car into a tree, I hit her. Police Sirens. This was normality.
We moved. As if it couldn’t get darker. It dd.
You can’t explain how it feels to have your childhood taken from you. To live in constant worry and fear before you even understand the concept of fear or worry.