With
the list of my academic and workplace history neatly recounted under
the 'About Me' heading on my Blogspot, I can now add the real story:
the one that allows me to write about harrowing subjects, such as
rape, murder, abuse and rejection, with authority.
Born
of a schizophrenic mother, I have always been ambivalent about
relationships and how much I mattered in them. I was twelve when my
mother was finally carried away, restrained, quite literally, by men
in white coats. There were incidents during the previous three years
when I'd been drawn into her different personas – she'd fantasize
about my father being dead; she'd declare, taking her hands off the
steering wheel, that my deceased Grandma was driving the car; she'd
leave me to be accused of stealing from a shop when Grandma hadn't
turned up to pay. She had one of her worst episodes - trying to kill
herself by driving into a hedge - while I was at school and I'd
arrived home just as she was being taken away for 'treatment'.
My
mother had never wanted me and blamed me for sentencing her to life
with a man she disliked. In those days divorce was not an option.
Three months later after undergoing ECT and psychotic drug treatments she returned home, a stranger to me, needing
forty-two pills a day and constant monitoring.
Four
years later my father moved us to London, which was wonderful,
overwhelming and frightening to a naïve girl from the backwaters of
Hertfordshire.
My
next nightmare was at the hands of a friend of my father, Sam*,
tasked to introduce me to London life. I suffered rape and
humiliation at the hands of this man and his friends.
I
escaped my parents' acrimonious marriage breakdown by moving in with
a much older man, an alcoholic with violent moods and from a totally
different background, a true East Ender, born within the sounds of
Bow Bells. This was Hackney and Dalston long before they became a
chic place to live, with pubs that harboured thieves and murderers,
gyms that fostered the planning of crimes and council flats that held
parties to celebrate successes by the likes of the Krays and the
Richardsons. I was witness to a brutal gangland killing, was beaten
badly myself and lived in hovels. It took me four years to return to
my mother.
My
next escape arrived in the form of a charming, good-looking man, well
known in music industry circles, a social animal seen at every
important premiere, gig and club opening. It was only when I married
him and committed myself to bringing up my two sons that I discovered
the back story. I lived a weird life of deceit and lies for 23 years
before he finally walked out, leaving us homeless and penniless. I
suffered a nervous breakdown.
Quite
a life so far. But as you can see, I can talk about the disturbing
world of psychopaths, mentally disturbed people and physical and
mental abuse with authority. I've only skimmed over the above details
– there's far, far more to come. I plan to divulge the full story
of my life in future blogs.
*
Not his real name
