Processing the Early Years

I've spent the best part of my 30's and now my 40's processing my childhood. Having raised 2 children of my own, I really began to think about how I was raised by my own parents/carers. Almost 5 years ago I was assessed and diagnosed as autistic; along with my eldest child; now 21 who was diagnosed roughly 12/13 years ago.

I've been estranged from my biological father for the last 10 years. He was emotionally abusive towards me from a young age and became physically abusive towards me during my teenage years. Unfortunately, he was a career criminal, liked to drink and would frequently come home 'full of hell'. My nervous system never really recovered from some of these experiences. I decided after numerous attempts to 'forgive and forget', that cutting all ties and going no contact was best for me.

My Mother on the other hand, came from a hardworking family. She returned to work full time when I was 3 months old and I spent most of my childhood between my maternal grandparents and the most wonderful childminder. My Grandfather (who I doted on) was in a position to take an early/semi retirement; enabling both his daughters to work full time. Grandad did the school runs, the sports days and collected us from extra-curricular activities. I was incredibly lucky to have such an amazing man in my life until only 3 years ago, when I lost him to Alzheimer's and my world fell apart. 7 months later to the very day, my Grandmother also passed away to dementia. I'm sure throughout these blog posts I'll reflect on and talk about my Grandparents quite frequently. They played such a major role in my life and I miss them every single day with all my heart.

Luckily my Mother didn't drink alcohol! But she was a workaholic. I realise now it was her escape from home. I've always respected my Mother's decision to work so hard. She never married my biological father, she always had a mortgage, was fiercely independent and career driven. Yet, as I've gotten older, I've grown some resentment towards her decision to choose work over 'family time'. I say family time, but there was only me! I am my Mother's only child. My biological Father has another daughter who's 13 years my senior to a previous relationship. Due to the age gap and the fact we never lived together, we were never very close; in fact quite the opposite, but that's probably a story for another day!

My Mother and Father remained in a very unstable relationship until I was 18; when I became a Mother myself! I was a runaway type kid, 'difficult', 'misunderstood'. Our home never felt like a loving place. It felt like a place built on egg shells. I always felt in the way or trapped in between screaming, shouting and the frequent smashing of doors and Nao ornaments! I would often clash with my God fearing Grandmother who, although she was my Mother's mother, would insist on calling my Father to 'discipline me' or let him know what I had been up to. My Grandfather on the other hand would spend hours with me; after school or on the weekends. We would go to the park, the library, searching for golf balls in the woods or collect rent from the students, living in a bunch of flats he owned in the university district across the city we live in.

My Grandfather taught me to appreciate and explore the outdoors. He taught me how to swim, ride a bike and play football and golf. Looking back, although my Grandfather never said anything negative, he knew what was happening and would take me away from it all. I remember one particular instance when I was about 4/5 years old, my Mother and Father were arguing. My Father was waving a knife at my Mother in the kitchen. My Mother told me to ring my Grandparents who only lived around the corner. Back then we had a list of telephone numbers by the house phone in case I needed to make an emergency call. As I dialled the number my Father came in the room and ripped the phone wire from the wall. Luckily the call had connected and my Grandfather was there within minutes. I just remember my Father and Grandfather tussling with the door, my Grandfather squeezing me through a narrow gap and taking me away. I think I spent a few days at my Grandparents house. Nobody spoke about the incident in front of me until years later when I would bring it up with my Mother. My Grandfather was often my 'safe place' and would regularly remove me from dangerous situations my Mother and Father would put me in.

Life continued like this for years until I was almost into adulthood. I was 18. a young Mum when I had my Father arrested on domestic violence charges. I'd returned to my Mothers home late into my pregnancy and now I was a Mother myself, I called the police trying to protect my own child and my Mother. Part of my Father's bail conditions were to stay away from the home, giving my Mum the space for long enough that she needed, to realise just how peaceful life was without him. She finally broke free after 23 years of threats, violence and abuse.

Looking back over those early years, I began and continue to feel such resentment towards both my Mother and Father. There were occasions when my Dad would smash up the house. He once smashed up my bedroom and threatened to kill me. I know my Mother believed him at the time because we left the house in the middle of the night and went and spent the night at my Grandparents home, until he had sobered up in the morning.

For some reason, my Mother let him convince her to take me abroad with my older half sister when I was about 15. My Father was convinced I was acting inappropriately on the holiday and assaulted me very badly. At the time my 'half sister' would of been about 28. She pretended to be asleep in the same room, while I cried out for my Mum during what I can only describe as a vicious attack. I'm sure the assault lasted minutes but it felt like an eternity. My Father unleashed a flurry of punches to my whole body, repeatedly called me names; he even bit me. I was terrified and I don't think I ever got over that particular incident, I'm not sure I ever will.

From a young age, I became used to my Father speaking to me through gritted teeth, calling me things such as a 'fat c*nt'. I always felt like he hated me. I would beg my Mother not to argue with him; he would often call from the pub on his way home, so we would get a feel for what kind of mood he was in. She never listened.

My Mother was very confrontational, often knowing how he would react and knowing she had a child in the house. As an adult, this leaves me feeling perplexed. I have always struggled to be around anyone who was drunk. I've lived my adult life in a state of hypervigilance and I find people who are drunk to be very unpredictable. I would never provoke or instigate an argument with someone who was drunk; especially with my own children in the house. It's always been my job to protect them and keep them safe, so luckily they never had to experience the things I did during my childhood.

I realise how important it was to have a beautiful influence such as my Grandfather in my life for all those years. I often think about what kind of person I might have been without him there. He was such a kind and respectful man. He was courteous of others and always had a smile on his face. My Grandfather loved to travel, read books and was always eager to learn about other cultures and people that were different to himself. I'll miss his hugs, his hello's and his love forever.