You see in my life I have gone through every major psychological trauma a person can. It's left me with scars, I have PTSD that my therapist says is more consistent with children who have grown up in war zones. But it has also left me stronger than anyone I know. And it also made me an amazing Mom for my daughter. This is my story.
London. 1984. Thunder rolled across the rapidly darkening city skyline as a brief flash of lightning illuminated the tiny figure of a small child curled up on the fourth floor apartment windowsill. Slowly the little girl inched her way off her perch and made her way across the darkened room. She was little more than halfway before she collapsed to her knees, she was so violently sick that she soiled herself.
Sounds like the opening of a soap opera, or rags to riches hollywood movie. But this is in reality my first memory. I was three years old. And I was alone.
I remember thinking, as I was so violently ill I struggled to breathe, that I was going to die on my own there on the dingy floor of the flat I shared with my father. That there was no one too look after me. I remember thinking that I was alone so I had to sort myself out. I didn't know when my Dad would return. I remember the bone aching cold of getting into a freezing cold bath in an attempt to clean myself up. I remember feeling like I'd disappointed my Dad when he found me, curled up half conscious on the bathroom floor.
After that the memories get hazy again. I found out later in my life that I really had come very close to death that night. My father, a heroin addict, had left me alone while he went to 'score a hit'. I'd somehow gotten hold of his methadone and taken some. If I'd have been left alone longer than the 3 or 4 hours that I had been left to fend for myself, I wouldn't be here now.
I don't have many memories of the 3 years between that incident when I was three and when he died, shortly after my 6th birthday. Flashes of things, liver and onions for dinner.. again! (I now hate liver and onions), images of my dad sat at our dining table heating heroin in a spoon over a candle, me tidying the flat we lived in as he lay passed out on the sofa. It wasn't much of a life for a small child when I look back, but for me, this was the most normal, the most happy time of my childhood.
I was 6 years old when my fathers addictions and depression finally took him. It was late and my dad had asked me to go and brush my teeth ready for bed. After 3 years of me being basically independant I remember feeling resentful about the request. For 3 years I'd taken myself to bed, been responsible for my own night time routine, he usually wasn't even in at this time. How dare he ask me to brush my teeth. So, not wanting to anger him, because he could be unpredictable, I made my way into the bathroom, and simply ran the tap. After judging that I'd been messing around convincingly long enough to be believed in my tooth brushing deception, I stepped out of the bathroom silently.
What I saw confused me. Dad was crouched down, his back to me, examining his hand intently. Curiosity filling me I crept behind him til I could see over his shoulder. On the floor in front of him was a big bottle of vodka, and in his hand were piles of white pills. Sighing he threw the pills into his mouth and as he reached for the bottle to wash them down I turned and ran back into the bathroom. I don't know why but I knew I'd just seen something I wasn't supposed to. It confused me because his actions, when put in context of what i'd seen around him the last 3 years, were rather innocent. Shrugging it off I bounced out of the bathroom noisily this time, noticing as he turned and smiled at me, that he still seemed very sad despite the grin on his face.
As he put me to bed my father said to me that he loved me.. I remember this because it was unusual. Neither of my parents were physically or verbally affectionate. In all the years my Mom was alive I don't ever remember hearing an I love you. He then told me he was going to see baby Jesus and Edmund, my younger brother. He'd died when I was 3, he'd only had a year on this planet. He'd been born with cerebral palsy and a heart condition. For which my Dad felt responsible. His oldest son, my brother Ian Jr, had also been born with cerebral palsy.
I remember feeling scared. I knew something wasn't right. Baby Jesus was in heaven and so was Eddie. I said nothing and tried to be good and sleep. Maybe if I was good Daddy wouldn't leave me like Eddie did. I don't think I will ever forget the smell that hit me when I walked into his room the next morning. The smell of death is sickly and sweet, heavy and rancid all at the same time. It made me gag.
After years of fighting his demons my Dad gave up. On everything. On me. I was a little girl and I needed my Daddy. Only I wasn't. After 3 years of looking after myself and him, I had become the grown up. That's how it felt. And for many years I lived with feeling guilty. Feeling like I should have done something to stop him. To tell him it's ok to hurt but it doesn't have to end. I still struggle with feeling angry with him. I look at my daughter and I just can't understand why anyone would leave a child like that. I have been driven to the lowest points a person can go. Further than my father ever got. And still I don't understand why he or anyone would choose to end things rather than fight.
My neighbour found me sobbing on the balcony and called an ambulance. After that I don't remember much till the day, one month later. My Mom decided I was too much to handle and gave me to my Aunt and Uncle. Which is where the really bad stuff happened... Which I'll talk about in another blog.
