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HERSTORY

THE HARDEST PART OF ANY STORY is the

beginning. When you open this book you’ll have no idea

what to expect.I need to grasp your attention in the first

paragraph otherwise I’ve lost you completely. I need to set the

story and let you in. Will it be worth your time to read? I guess

you’ll have to make that decision yourself… so let me begin.

I’m currently 19 years of age, my parents split 10 years ago and

my response after they’d sat me down and broken the news was

“so I get TWO bedrooms now?” My father laughed a hearty

chuckle whilst my mum sat there in disbelief. Why was it that her

daughter was taking the news so well? It wasn’t long before she

approached me later on that night and said “you do realize that

your dad won’t be here at night to tuck you in, he won’t be here

to read you a story or to make you breakfast before you go to

school” my eyes welled up with tears and I began to cry. Big heavy

sobs that caused me to shake from head to toe. This is my mother

for you. If you don’t give her what she wants, she will take it for

herself with no consideration of how it will affect the other. I’d

never realized just how selfish and greedy she was until I was left

alone with her. That’s when my life changed for the worst. The

next 6 years in my so-called family home, would be my very own

hell on earth.

When I sit here, and think about my childhood memories,

they’re all bad. I can remember being happy, when I was with

other people, a friend, but no memory of my mother is a happy

one. Whether it’s me in hospital due to an accident, or being

patronized to a point where I felt insignificant, not one memory is

good. I can’t begin to tell you the amount of times I have tried to

recall a happy time in my life, it’s frustrating to have to sit here and

somewhat push my head to breaking point in order to recollect a

mere memory. Surely it shouldn’t be that hard, right? Sometimes

I get somewhere, and then realize the only reason I think I

remember is because of a photograph I’ve seen. If it weren’t for

that picture, I wouldn’t have a clue.

Her Story

I REMEMBER BEING WOKEN UP by my father at an

early hour, so early it was still dark and being told I had to

get dressed because my mum wasn’t well “hurry, we need

to go to hospital”. I never quite understood what was going on,

she looked pale, a shell of her former self. The men in white coats

rushed her away the minute we stepped foot into the building and

when they spoke to my father about how she was doing, I wasn’t

allowed to listen. The words would have been too harsh on my

fragile ears.

When I finally saw her, she was sat up in a bed with a drip in

her arm. It wasn’t a simple, clear solution... It was black, and

somewhat gritty. She had a sad smile on her face, even at the age

of 9 I could see she didn’t mean it. People would ask me how she

was doing, and I didn’t know what to say. What happened to her?

Is she all right? What’s wrong? Are you ok? All these questions

were thrown at me and I just stood there blissfully ignorant. It

wasn’t until a few years later, when I matured and started to piece

the event together that I figured out she’d overdosed. My mother

tried to kill herself and didn’t think twice about leaving her 9-year-

old daughter alone in the world.

I used to trampoline. Every week I would get the chance to fly

and I loved it. The feeling I had in the pit of my stomach when I

was bouncing at great heights made me feel on top of the world. It

was a release, an escape, and I was good at it. I remember testing

how high I could go, jumping higher and higher each time, and

then it all went wrong. I lost my balance and when I fell back onto

the trampoline, my legs got caught beneath me and I couldn’t

move. I let out a scream that caused every single person in that

gymnasium to stop what they were doing, except my mother.

Every single person in that room was looking at me, staring. My

instructor ran over to where I was; yet my mother still hadn’t

noticed. I was sat there, her daughter, screaming in pain, and

she was still having a conversation with the lady next to her,

completely and utterly oblivious. “Linda, Linda, LINDA” my

instructor shouted until she responded. Finally, she realized. I

wasn’t rushed to hospital in an ambulance for the closest one my

mother didn’t approve of, so instead I had to sit in standstill traffic,

just so that we could go to the one SHE wanted me at. I was given

crutches, and a big bandage, for they revealed I had torn my

quadricep muscle and had to stay off my feet for 6 weeks.

“She was sat two meters away

from me and she had no idea.”

The worst part of this story is that the whole time I was sat

screaming on my trampoline, she, my mother, was sat on a

bench, 2 meters away from me. 2 meters and she had no idea.

As I got older I began to see the cracks more clearly, for they

became craters. Huge crevices full of hatred and hurt. I have

no idea why she began to lash out at me, both mentally and

physically, but she did and I became scared of my own mother,

afraid of what was awaiting me when I got home. It would always

depend on how her day had been, whether she was lucky in love

and whether she was generally in a good mood. If you were to ask

me what we argued about, or how they started, I honestly couldn’t

tell you. It was always insignificant, petty, but she would crawl

under my skin and bring up other problems as ammunition in her

argument. I began to believe that she actually enjoyed seeing me

cry, seeing me crumble and become a shy being, constantly unsure

of myself. One-night things got seriously out of hand; I remember

every detail so clearly that I can even remember what I was

wearing. It was a Tweety pie nightie, bobbled from the amount

of times it had been washed; yet it was my favourite. She chased

me up the stairs trying to hit me, to right my wrongs, and as I got

to my room she pushed me and I fell backwards into my wooden

dolls house. Then she left.

I couldn’t move due to the pain my back was in, the wooden

chimneys, and sharp corners of the house had dug into my

back causing it to bruise, so I closed my eyes and slept there.

“If anything they got worse”

I remember countless nights, when I would lock myself in the

bathroom and cry. I would call my father and beg him to let me

live with him. Over and over again I would tell him how much I

hated living there, and how I didn’t care if I had to move schools,

I just wanted to be freed. No matter how bad it got, he always

reassured me that it would be all right and things would get better.

They never did. If anything they got worse.

I REPORTED MY MOTHER TO MY SCHOOL,

and the social services got involved. I didn’t go home

that evening, instead I went to their offices, and was

told to sit in a room and wait till they called me. They wanted

to interview my mother alone. I remember the room as though

it were yesterday. It smelt musty, old, there were white blinds on

the window, open just enough for me to see the rain outside. It

was dark, winter nights always draw in early, and the room kept

glowing from red, to amber to green, as the traffic light opposite

changed colour. I remember feeling cold, and scared that I would

get hurt even more if they let me go home with her, yet the

prospect of getting out of this hell I was in gave me a sense of

excitement and joy. I was called into the downstairs meeting room,

and my mother was sat there in tears. I felt like standing there and

giving her a standing ovation for her wonderful performance of a

caring mother. It made me feel physically sick.

Nothing came of it, except a visit from a woman who basically

managed to turn it round on my dad and accused him of making

me report my mother. They managed to convince him that it was

due to him and his partner not letting me into their lives. I told

them that my mother, the woman I was living with, was hitting

me. They blamed my father. That’s our government for you.

“I told them that my mother,

the woman I was living

with, was hitting me. They

blamed my father. That’s our

government for you.”

I’ve always had very high morals, and I’m a big believer of

karma. I would always get into arguments with my mother

over who was right, and how she couldn’t say the things she did

because it was bad and unjust. Her reply “what are you going to

do, report me again?” and then she laughed. My mother hitting

me became a mockery.

That was my breaking point. My mother carried on how she

always had. My father was constantly telling me it would be ok.

The social services had thrown my case to the side. I was alone

and I had never felt so alone. At the age of 15 I began to cut my

wrists. I would remove the blade from the disposable razor and

hide it in the back of my phone. From then on, after an argument,

I would go to my room, lock myself away, cry till my chest hurt

and cut. It hurt, but I wanted something that would override

the pain I was already in. I’m lucky to not have any scars, for I

wouldn’t want people to see them and assume my past and think

they knew me, nor would I want anyone to feel sorry for me.

“‘What are you going to do,

report me again?’... and then

she laughed.”

Don’t you Darefeel Sorry for me.

I started University in September 2010, and my father had come

to visit student houses with me. As we sat in pizza express, he told

me he had something important to say. I was worried as to what

was about to emerge. He looked so serious. He explained that he

gave my mother a sum of money each month to look after me,

and that now I was moving out and living on my own, he wanted

to give that money to me directly.

“I don’t want your money.” Was my first response. My face,

stone cold and serious was not going to budge. I was nothing like

my mother and I didn’t want to be treated that way. “I want you

“If you expect Laura to have a room to stay in at the new house, and a place on the drive to park her car, I still want £xxx a month.”

to have it” he replied, “but I need to speak to your mother first as I

wanted to tell you before hand”. To cut a longer than needed story

short, my father emailed my mother and her response was golden.

Definitely one of her best. “If you expect Laura to have a room

to stay in at the new house, and a place on the drive to park her

car, I still want £xxx a month.” My father, then and now, pays my

mother rent for me to have a home to go back to in the holidays.

If it weren’t for the money, my mother would have given up on me

a long time ago. I am a walking, talking gold mine for my mother

to abuse.

“I felt utterly alone, all the time, no one understood, it was like a

pain inside me that was eating me alive, I had no one to turn to”

This story does have a happy ending. I became stronger. I stopped

cutting and I realized that happiness was a state of mind, a choice,

and if I wanted to be happy I could. The minute I stopped caring

about my mother, the minute I stopped caring about what she

thought I was absolutely fine. The feeling I got from this is hard to

explain, like a release and an epiphany all in one. She would shout

at me, get angry with me, be disappointed in me and roll her eyes

at me, and all the while I would either walk away or merely smile.

I refused to let her ruin my life, I refused to let her get to me and

it worked.

I’m sat here, recollecting these events whilst trying not to cry.

Some may say she still has a hold over me, because I can’t tell the

stories without getting upset. When I remember, I mentally return

to how I felt at the time, and my head begins to pound and the

tears begin to fall. I know I’m not the only girl to have a troubled

childhood, but I’m also not ashamed of people knowing my story.

At the end of the day, everything I went through at such a young

age has made me who I am today.

The relationship I have with my mother is what I like to call

‘blissful ignorance’ for she acts as though all is well, and nothing

bad has ever come between us. I can’t decide whether I prefer it

like that or whether I’d rather we had no contact. If she were to

walk out of my life, I honestly wouldn’t care. I am my own person,

and I no longer need her. I have removed all the people from my

life that put me down or made me feel inadequate, yet the one

person I want to remove entirely is my mother, and of all people,

she’s the hardest. There’s an invisible tie between all mothers and

daughters that you can’t see with the naked eye, but you know is

there. I know for a fact that I will always have her in my life, but

I can guarantee you this, I would rather live in a cardboard box,

than to ever move back in.

Today is the 20th January 2012. It’s a new year and a new

beginning. I now live away from my mother, and only visit a few

times a year. Life is perfect. I live with the most wonderful friend

I could ever ask for, who’s family has let me in to their home and

gives me a place to sleep whenever I need it. I’m doing a degree

which I adore every second of, and I’m extremely self confident. I

hold my head high. I’m not afraid of who I am, I’m not afraid of

what people think, I’m not afraid to have my own opinion and I’m

not afraid to say no. I’m no longer afraid.