The Butterflywake 1

Chapter One: Sophia’s Choice!

The deafening sound of banging tin, and the noisy chatter of men, must have been what woke Sophia.

Lying in bed, she wondering what time it was at this seemingly dark hour. Listening to the racket the dustmen made, and the raining falling, drumming against the window, Sophia realised another wet November morning awaited her.

The dustbins were being collected, which meant it was Monday, she reminded herself. Trying to see through sleepy eyes, she tried to focus on the electric alarm clock, trying to see the time, six-thirty a.m.

She reluctantly forced herself to get out of bed whilst wishing she could return to her peaceful sleep. Once again she had overslept, and would be late for school.

“Mom, MOM, you downstairs?” she shouted, as she strolled into the kitchen still half-asleep, briefly glancing into a vacant smoke stained sitting room. Yet, her mother was no-where to be seen.

She did not hold much hope to be graced by her mother’s presence this morning. Her mother had disappeared into the night.

After having half the tenants of the local pub over all day for a ‘piss-up’, and they must have run out of booze. So they would have returned to the local lair to continue their festivity, there was no particular reason as to why they were getting pissed, just that it was Sunday.

She had not heard her mother and the gang of local drinkers return. Most nights she lie in bed and listen for the door, until the early hours of the morning, hoping her mother would return safely. Perhaps she had fallen asleep, whilst her mother had returned, Sophia mused!

Suddenly, unexpectedly, there was incoherent noise resounding from upstairs.

Her mother’s voice!

She went back upstairs to greet her mother, wondering what condition she would be in today.

Every day, Sophia’s life consisted of unpredictably, and she was regularly greeted by the unknown.

Every morning, she hoped she would not be exposed to her mothers’ addiction, or to discover her mother in a semi-conscious state, yet again.

More importantly, that she would not have to tolerate the aftermath of her mother promiscuity, to be greeted by some strange man, coming out of her mother’s bedroom or the bathroom, semi-naked.

At only thirteen years old, Sophia was much older than her years. She needed to be!

Caretaker to her mother, was the role she had played for a long time, this had been her adopted role for as long as she could remember, well for most of her young life. Yet, she did not blame her mother for her behaviour, or her addiction, nor did she hold her responsible for the countless men that frequented their flat at all hours.

No, Sophia loved her mother, she loved her very much.

Sophia reached the top of the stairs, and stood at the doorway that led into her mother’s bedroom. Where she waited until her mother instructed her to enter, learning from an early age never to run into to her mother’s bedroom unannounced. So, to save her mother’s grace, she would only to enter on instruction.

“Come in silly girl, its ok”, her mother beckoned.

As she entered, she was thankful to find her mother alone this morning, probably hung over from the night before, but alone all the same.

“Morning mom”, said Sophia, as delicately as she could.

Another lesson learnt from an early age was never to be too boisterous, or noisy. From the age of two, she had learnt to be as quiet as a mouse.

“Can I get you anything?” she whispered.

“No Sophia, wait yes, a cup of tea please”, answered her mom, while clutching her head.

“And bring my pack of cigs from the sitting room, oh and my lighter” she added as an afterthought.

Sophia located her mother discarded pack of cigarettes and put the kettle on. She stood in the kitchen staring out of the window and hoped her school uniform would be dry, because the central heating was switched off again last night. Her mother had forgotten to charge the electric key, she forgot many things, and it was up to Sophia to remember the practicalities of life, most of the time.

She was startled out of her daydreaming by the sound of the kettle whistling away, she made the tea for her mother, as she had done on countless morning.

Then she returned upstairs with the cup of tea, and her mom’s cigarettes as requested. Her mother lay in bed with her eyes closed, so she placed the items down on the side and left, quietly. One task done, another awaits her! She went into the kitchen to set up the ironing board to iron a rather damp school uniform.

Life was not always this hectic, Sophia thought as she prepared herself for another day at school. She remembered a time when she was younger, when her mother had ‘managed’ her addiction, and would only smoke marijuana, or drink late at night.

She wondered, when did it all go so wrong for her mother, was it her father disappearance that caused her mother’s drinking to increase, along with her substance misuse. Following his departure, her mother disintegrated, and she stopped caring about her appearance, yes it was then when she became very depressed.

Sophia never understood why her mother was so affected by his disappearance, given their history, and following the legal banishment that prevented him from frequenting their door. But then several things adults did, Sophia just did not understand.

The doctor had diagnosed her mother with bipolar five years ago, and since then she had been on an assortment of prescription drugs. She swallowed so many different pills that in the end, Sophia did not know what medication her mother took for what aliment.

Destination, unbeknown

Walking closer to window edge

I feel so empty, cold, alone

Unlucky me, I’ve laid my bed

Would not wish me on another

Masochistic masterpiece

Blood drains from face

Pale, paler, disappearance

Restless nights, I toss and turn

Deep inside a hunger stirs

Nightmarish pictures consuming me

Don’t stand too close, you’re bound to burn

Drifting in, out of consciousness

Tubes running inward, outwardly

Iron, frame crib to contain me

New diagnostic label, mild to sever

Din noise outside the wall

Voices, perhaps, shall I whisper

Come closer, touch me

Feel me just once

Fading, fast into the abyss,

Until the end,

No-where else to go!

Sophia would visit the chemist, to collect the repeat prescriptions for her mother; however, she never knew what all those plastic bottles of pills were for, or what they were meant to do. Her mother blamed the doctors for her addiction to drugs in the first instance, and claimed if she had not started taking all those pills, she would not be addicted at all.

Sophia believed her, although in reality her mother was addicted long before she consulted a doctor, and Sophia remembers how her mother used to self-medicate, however, she doubted her mother knew what was truth was anymore.

Nonetheless, Sophia needed to believe her mother, otherwise, what else was there to believe in the truth; well the truth hurt!

“Sophia”, her mother said as she came stumbling down the stairs, she looked like hell, and Sophia recognised a throbbing hangover.

“Here, I have some money for you to buy yourself some lunch. Oh, and will you get me some things I need, on your way home from school today?”

“Mom, you can not stay in bed all day today!” pleaded Sophia in a desperate tone. “Social Services are coming to visit today, and you will need to make sure the sitting room and kitchen are spotless”, as she glanced at the disarray that surrounded her.

“Mom, we can not let them see the place in this state, as they are bound to say something”.

Body aches, muscles sore

Pain seeps though every pore

Crawling towards blotted door

Slightly messed up, dysfunctional state

Pitch blackness becomes bitter hate

Choking to swallow, what’s left on my plate

I heard I’m crazy, or slightly mad-hatter

Never destroyed no-one, despite all the chatter

What a fool am I, to think I’d matter

Poor little girl, so full of shame

She hurts for someone else to blame

So incomplete, without her name

Reaches the bottom, approaches the end

They say she truly on the mend

She floats in circles and rounds the bend

Closes door, returns to bed

Sits alone, hands on head

Lights go out, the room turns red.

Social Services featured in their lives for a while now, and Sophia was on first-name basis with their Social Worker named Alice.

Alice was kind, friendly, non-judgemental and helpful, and she had dedicated much of her time trying to reconstruct some kind of normality into Sophia and her mom’s fragmented lives. Sophia had been placed on the Child Protection register, seven years ago, after her mom had tried to commit suicide.

Ironically, she was grateful to be on the register. This guaranteed someone attending to her mother’s needs once a week, while ensuring that everything ran smoothly. And without this extra assistance, Sophia was doubtful that she would manage.

Furthermore, without this weekly check up, she thought her mother would admit defeat. Therefore, this intervention gave her mother some form of motivation.

Sophia was guilt ridden thinking these things about her mother’s inability. But she knew that for both their sakes, other people needed to be involved in their lives.

Her mother complained constantly about Social Services involvement in their lives, and always badmouthed Alice. Sophia knew that her mother was secretly just as pleased as she was that they had Alice, to keep the chaos from spilling completely out-of-control.

“Oh for god’s sake!” her mother protested, “not today of all days”.

And with that she placed a five pound note on the side-table for Sophia, while heading towards the kitchen and scanning the chaos. She started to collect the unwanted cans and bottles, along with the empty cigarette packets that were discarded all over the kitchen, throwing them into a black rubbish bag.

Her head hurt as she remembered vaguely the people she invited back from the pub at lunchtime, and had flashes of yesterday’s debauchery.

“Don’t tell her that I went out again and left you alone again last night, ok!” her mother remembered.

“You know I don’t tell Alice anything any more. I won’t say a word”, replied Sophia.

She dare not speak out, as she knew what would happening if Social Services thought that she was been neglected. She would be forced to live with another foster family. And after experiencing that horrific experience just once, Sophia promised herself that she would do everything in her power to avoid those fearsome situations.

In her reality, her mother did not neglect her. And listening to the stories most of the children she met in care had told, she was more fortunate than those she had encountered in care. Compared to the narrative they told, Sophia’s life seem as if it was a picnic in comparison.

No, her mother loved her, and even though she was partially responsible for the up-keep of the house and was totally self-sufficient, she thought these small insignificant duties she need to do where irrelevant in contrast to what she had heard that other children were forced to endure.

Her mother did not always drink herself into oblivion. There was a cycle that she followed, there was a pattern to her disorganised chaos, and one she would adhere to like clockwork. The rest of the time she was fully-present at home playing “happy families” and cooking dinner for her daughter.

On those days, Sophia felt as if they were best mates, and she was “normal”, just as any other teenage girl she knew. They would sit and watch the television together and everything felt just rosy. Those were the days she loved the most.

Sophia appreciated the difficulty her mother faced when trying to refrain from drinking and using drugs. On countless occasions, she had tried, and even joined a local woman’s group who specialised in drug and alcohol issues.

Every day, she battled against her addiction, and Sophia was fully aware how complex this illness was to cure, and the challenge in staying sober. Sophia was well educated on the struggle that people faced when attempting sobriety. This she had learnt from listening to the woman chatter at the centre.

She had escorted her mother on a weekly basis as she attended these groups that addressed the issues of addiction. She would be left to entertain herself, along with the other children whose mothers would visit the centre. She was a fast learner and eager listener, and she listened to everything that was mentioned about addiction.

For her age, she had a sound understanding of the dangers and perils of using drugs, and the seemingly impossible task of getting one’s life back together.

This experience was enough to prevent Sophia from ever wanting to indulge in drugs or drink alcohol. She told herself on many occasions that she would never go down that dark and lonely road. How did she know it was a dark and lonely existence? Well she just had to look at what it had done, or what it was still doing to her mother to know that it was a ‘mug’s game’.

Sophia blamed her father, and felt it was his abusive execution of her mother’s spirit, that drove her to drink.

He was a cruel man.

Her mother’s account of his character, and the stories she had told, frighten Sophia immensely. Tales of how he would beat her mother senseless almost every day in their existence together, and verbally abuse her too.

Yes, he was a merciless man.

Sophia was aged seven when he was escorted out of the house, and she remembered the blue lights flashing outside her window, and the policemen dragging him out into the waiting van. He was drunk, completely out of his mind and shouting abuse for all to hear and the entire neighbourhood was out that night, “to see the show”. She did not hold fond memories of her father. No, she hated him!

“Roses are red, 
Violence is blue,
Scars that I carry, 
Reminders of you!”

When her father did grace them with his presence, he would treat the flat as if it were a bed and breakfast, arriving whenever it pleased him, and staying only long enough to spend her mother’s child-care money. Refusing him had dire consequences; so they waited until he had exhausted their resources and disappeared, probably to pester some other poor soul.

Intoxicated by your hate

Domination and control

Suffered so long in silence

It’s time to let it go

Suffocating drowning in tears

Can't be a way of living

Catatonic, swimming, sea blue

Unrealistic state of duja-ve

Reincarnated unhappiness

Repeats of movies blue

No longer exist, deranged

Blood completely drain

State of confusion

Disappointment

Rejection, masochistic too long

Constantly in a dream like state

Before I crumble break and fall

Under your spell I have broken

Freedom awaits the lonely child

Dogmatic words too often spoken

All so crazy, hazy, wild

Last exist before destruction

This is where I depart

Before I no longer feel human

Just a cask, which holds a heart

Fortunately, he had not arrived unannounced at their door for some time, rumour has it that he was in prison. But if the truth be known, he had vanished since her mother had an injunction taken out against him, thereafter, he no longer harassed them.

The Magistrate’s verdict was very clear, and she had stated that under no circumstance was Sophia’s father to go anywhere near their neighbourhood. Her mother’s lawyer had presented a case that had highlighted the entirety of what her mother had had to endure since she first met Sophia’s father. And it was not a case for the faint hearted.

The lawyer had explicitly explained in great detail just how challenging her mother’s life was living with his brutal bullying and cruel ways. Sophia had no love lost for her father, and had sworn never to have anything to do with him again, not ever!

Even though she did not want to see him, or speak to him, it still hurt not having a father in her life. She felt so alone without him, and she had to tolerate the mockery she received after the rumour of his arrest spread through the town. And at school, some of the other kids would tease her and call her names.

It felt as if everyone knew that her father was a violent man, and her mother was a drunk, or so they would say.

She had to pretend that she did not care, when she heard the giggling and taunts directed at her, she just kept walking. She could have informed her mother of the bullying that she faced on a regular basis, but she knew that her mother would arrive at the school and cause a scene, and how would that help.

No-one could protect her from the constant taunting and mockery, she had to deal with this all on her own. The same as she had to deal with most things alone.

She would come home and hide in her bedroom, and there she would let her feelings be known. As she wept into her pillow, and allowed all the hurt and frustration to dispel from her body, she would sob until she was exhausted, and then fall into a deep yet peaceful sleep.

Where she would dream of a different time and place, and have visions of another girl in a distant life, yes, she would dream of being free.

“I float upon the ceiling

No higher, to the sky
I dream of life so gentle
As my tears run dry.
I wish I was an angel
Someone who is free
In fact, I would be any one
As long as just not me.”

Gratefully, Sophia had Alice. Alice was the only person she could truly talk to who understood her desperate plight. Alice had been very informative concerning her mother’s illness, and tried to answer most of the many questions Sophia asked.

Questions she needed answered, as she tried to grasp an understanding on addiction.

In fact, it was Alice who suggested that Sophia attend a youth group which was run by the council, and held at the local youth centre. Sophia would do anything she could to please Alice, so she went along to the group.

At the youth centre, she was to encounter some of the local children and young people from surrounding neighbourhoods, who would all meet up once a week to ‘play games’, and gossip, and feel as if they were ‘part of a gang’. Yet the only true thing that they all shared, the one thing they all had in common was addicted parental figures and carers.

This was the place where they could all “hangout” and “identify” with each other, and discuss the troubles and misdemeanours that they had to face unsupervised. Sophia felt so out of place!

After the first time she attended the ‘group sessions’, she determined that she was left feeling low, so she did not return. Moreover, she refused to acknowledge that her family were dysfunctional. She had heard other children at the centre confess, in a nonchalant manner, how their families were so dysfunctional.

Undeniably, these children who frequented the youth centre, they too were older than their years. Attending this group, forced Sophia to face reality about what was truly going on for her family and her life. She preferred convincing herself that things at home were ‘normal’. This way she stood a chance.

If she had to label herself as ‘the child of an addict or ‘drunk’’, then little hope remained. She needed to believe, believe that one day things would be very different, one day things would change. She had faith in her mother.

Sophia knew that the people who ran the Children Services at the Council would possibly judge her mother, and anyone standing on the outside looking into her life, would feel that her life seemed to be in constant turmoil. She had overheard conversations that suggested she should be in foster care, and not have to endure this harsh treatment, as they pointed a disapproving finger.

She listened while they discussed her, and determined how her life should be, and what was best for her, but how did they know?

No-one ever asked her.

What would they know about her life!

As far as Sophia was concerned, her mother was kind and considerate, she would attend to her when she was unwell, and hold her hand when she was frightened. Her mother was the same as any other mother. The only difference was her mother had an illness, but her mother did not ‘do these things’ with an intention to harm her.

More importantly, she had never hit Sophia nor caused her intentional harm.

And her mother had a watchful eye, scrutinizing the men who frequented their home, and would not allow them to converse with Sophia, except to say hello and other such pleasantries. Moreover, she would enquire what they wanted if she saw them chatting with Sophia on the ‘quiet’.

She was very protective over Sophia and would have fought anyone who tried to touch her little girl. No, the only protection that was needed in their home was her mothers’ protection from her own self-destructive side. Her mothers’ protection from herself!

“Enough daydreaming Sophia” she heard her mother say.“It’s time to go to school!”

“Yes mom, I am nearly ready”, she answered, and with that she ran upstairs to dress.

Shortly thereafter, she hurried back downstairs dressed and ready for school. Amazed to see how her mother had cleaned the entire downstairs and was now sitting down having a cup of tea.

“After this cup of tea and ‘cig’ I will go upstairs and have a bath, and then I will be ready for our Alice”, said her mother.

She smiled, then she walked over to where her mother sat and kissed her goodbye, while embracing her with all the love she could manage.

“Hey honey, everything ok?” asked her mother, taken aback by her daughter’s sudden overtly display of affection.

“Sure mom, everything is just fine”, she replied and with that she raced out the door towards the bus stop, where her best-friend Zoë was waiting for her.

The Butterflywake 2

Chapter 2: Mother’s Ruin!

“There she goes again, my little girl!” thought Monica as she watched her daughter disappearing out the door.

“And here am I, left alone again!” she let out a deep sigh.

She rose after a moment, once she was able to muster the energy to get out of to the chair she seemed glued to, and entered the kitchen. She lit another cigarette, and stood looking out of the window in a daze, blankly staring at the overgrown garden in the backyard.

She stood there motionless and entering into a dreamlike state, she reflected on the day she gave birth to Sophia, in St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington. She evoked her jaded memory – a late November day – when she was rushed into hospital….as her waters broke.

No, she thought, as she corrected herself; they broke earlier that day, replaying the events of that day in her minds eye, as she had done countless times before. Perhaps, she hoped that each time she revisited that place that somehow the pictures would fade, or the memory would alter into one that was not filled with horror and regret.

But the pictures remained the same, in fact, each time they become more horrific than before. And this filled her with even more shame and guilt.

She reminisced how she had tried to locate her ‘lazy, no-good boyfriend and the father-of-her-child’, to ask him to take her to the hospital. She had telephoned every pub that he frequented but was unable to locate him, so she was left with no choice but to walk the ten blocks, overnight hospital bag in hand, in the pouring rain to his local drinking hole.

Only to find him there.

Drunk!

Why did I end up so messed up, so lonely?

Standing outside in the pouring rain

People stare at me in pity or disgrace

They don’t see my unbearable inner pain

Became something so hideous, so vulgar

No more self respect or any pride

Allow a substance take over and control me

While it eats me up, I die deep down inside

Foreseen future, would I’ve walked another way?

Run away hide safe and sound

So I could not have developed a taste for it

Never a part of me, never around

Many tried to warn me of my choice

Nightmares awoke me, still I remained blind

Unhappiness surrounded me, misery

Still I must have been out of my mind

Stuck in this hell hole going no where

Trapped inside, fearful, scared, dread

Unable to escape nowhere to run

Wait for the day I’m no longer off my head

Messed up, confused, destroyed, broken, sad

Angry, lonely, worried, frightened, depressed, low

Nervous, pathetic, insane, desperate, distorted

Totally stuck, a bloody mess, I no longer know.

Sophia did not stand a chance when she chose this couple to be her parents, when her little soul chose her as a mother, and that monster as her father, she must have know she’d be doomed.

“Christ, I must have looked a sight walking into the Queen’s Head on that bitterly cold November day, a real ‘sight for sore eyes’”, she thought.

She visualized herself walking into the pub that day, wet, nine months pregnant, desperate and tearful, as her waters broke.

‘A sight for sore eyes’, was that not what her mother Margaret called her on a regular basis? Well then her mother would have been proud, her self-fulfilling prophecy had come true; she was her mother’s prediction.

“Oh get a grip, Monica!” “Stop wallowing in self-pity, things to do, people to see” she heard herself saying.

Her inner critical parent must have woken up with a sore head too. She listened to her inner dialogue and noticed how negative the voices where today. The same way they always where when she woke with a hang-over.

And today, this one felt as if it was the hang-over to end all others. Then again, she heard herself say those words every time she had a hang-over.

“Round and round the merry-go-round
will this madness ever end? 
Spinning round, out of control 
where will you land, no-one will know”.

Then her mind drifted back further, deeper into her subconscious, to evoke a suppressed memory, one she tried to forget. Nevertheless, one that haunted her eternally. She recalled the time she was shut away, and as the memory reached a ‘focal point’ in her mind, she felt herself turning cold, ‘cutting straight to the bone’, as a shiver ran down her spine. God, she felt so alone!

It was the time her mother had her locked up, the only way her mother could block out the truth, the only way she could life with herself was to blame her daughter for her shortcomings and lack of parenting skills. The time Monica was sectioned, and placed inside a “mental” hospital!

Another lonely tear, so boring

Woke up alone again, this morning

The last written tragedy!

Now I recognise, that’s me

Another destructive story

Will end, with no glory

I will not live without hope

And I will always cope

Why allow this loneliness?

Does happiness really exist?

Abandonment, fearful inside

Tenderness, I hide

Purest love, abused

Myself so pathetic, so used

Wish I’d stop this falling

Wait to hear, what’s my calling

No longer that strong

All those dreadful things I’ve done

Blame myself for my behaviour

Are you going to be my saviour?

Need to numb this inner pain

Do people really say that I’m insane?

Abuse myself, to the extreme

More a nightmare, than a dream

Wake suddenly in coldest sweat

Surrounded by greatest regret

There is no where left to hide

Naked, stripped of all my pride

Every time I try to rise

Someone knocks me down to size

Pointless trying to resist

Not sure that I even exist!

She memorized the day, a memory it may have been, yet it felt as if it was still happening, right here, right now.

She sat in silence, darkness embraced her, as if it were a cloak that was placed around her fragile body to keep her motionless, and as she sat so still, she recalls feeling utterly numb.

Inside a freezing icicle, a makeshift tomb, a windowless cask, a room without a view! Staring blankly at the once whitewashed walls that encompassed her, she remained frozen, seated on the cast-iron cot. She remained focused on the tarnished walls.

The dirty smears had created authentic designs, pictures of distant anguish, pain-inflicted memories belonging to a pervious victim. Bloodstained paintings her predecessors had left, as reminders that they too had endured the same agony. She stared at the patterns.

This entertained her, staring at the filth that surrounded her, trying to create pictures as she use to do when she was just a child, whilst laying on the grass and starting up at the clouds. Then she was so free, now she sat still, inside this prison that she now called home.

Solitarily confinement, a place that feels so lonely, yet, it was strangely comforting. Sitting in this dark damp cell, where she was away from the madding crowd, the other inmates, the ones that were crazier than she, the ones who were completely insane.

The coarse fabric of the straight-jacket was rubbing against her ivory skin. Red, raw, infected abscesses had appeared lately, and as painful as they were, she enjoy the stinging sharpest, and the anguish they caused.

She rocketed away to a lullaby, which played sweet sorrow inside her head. The pain those bedsores inflicted, were a reminder that she was still alive, and the sharp pain prevented the internal torment that she felt.

The injustice that had been done, the reason she was in this hellish hole.

Inside reformatory
Suppression, exposed
Freedom so unrewarding
So I’ve been told
Horrific daydreams
Drifting toward pointlessness
Silent scream 
Tubes in every orifice
Feeds me morphine
Hurts me, it hurts me
White uniforms race around
Rocking me endlessly
Shhh, not a sound 
Staring blankly at them 
Staring blankly at me
They seem so intense
Wonder what it is they see?
Regression into pre-life
Before she was born
The pretty pictures I foresaw
Not countless snap shots of scorn
Pity, self-pity
Halt those relentless conversations
The ones inside my head
Bellowing noises, 
Won’t listen to what’s been said 
Cackling faces, tuning red
Shivering, ice-cold
Seemingly dead!

Stop – Rewind. Once upon a time there was a pretty child, with golden hair, so full of promise. A future immensely bright, a family so brilliant, yes, it was a picture-painted affair. Happiness was the measure of the day and life itself could not be any more perfect. Was this the past she knew, or a past she dreamt of, a fantasy, created in the mind of a child, who dare not face her reality?

Oblivion – a way of avoiding the apparent, perhaps she was too young to see the naked truth, and maybe she was too naive to notice the dysfunctional existence that surrounded her. Why the hell would she notice the truth, she was an innocent child?

However, just as every fairytale has a wicked witch, a beast of burden, this one was just the same, and the reality soon caught up with her, and she discovered that every cloud is dark, and contains no silver lining. This was how she remembered her past, as she sat in the dark, and the sound of silence was her only friend.

A red bricked house with a garden, paved path leading up to a wooden door, brass knocker polished brightly, happy families. “Let’s play happy families”. Sun shining into the bedroom as daddy came home to hug the pretty child, in the splendid house, in the functional family.

Then daddy died!

Those are the only memories Monica wished she could remember, her happier childhood, her innocence. Yes, those are the ones she held on to. But just as those faded holiday photographs lay up in the attic at her mother’s house, so too were her precious memories fading, the pictures all fuzzy and the colours no longer remained.

Then daddy was gone!

In his place, her mother chose a brute. Instead of a man, an animal to accompany her till the end of her days. But he left too, once the truth was out. But before that gracious day, Monica had to suffer at the hands of this monster, hands which maul, hands that touch in inappropriate places, hands to suffocate.

She recalls the day it all began, the day her role in life changed from innocent child, step-daughter, to lover, slave, and to the abused. She was five!

Recurring dreams
Nightmarish escapism
Haunted whispers 
Resounding 
Through these bones.
Blood rushing 
Inside the pathways 
Of my veins
Heart pulsating 
Heaving bosom
Louder, faster 
Yet so cold.
All consuming 
Fear and dread
Twisted laughter 
Constant drooling. 
I wait as
The door swings open
Enter monster
Green eyed
Lamb disguised 
In wolf’s ski
Beast who comes 
To eat my flesh.
Only hope is to survive
Before my nemesis 
Comes to wake me
Please don’t let him
Take me alive.

“Who would ever believe your lies, you filthy little bitch” “Everyone knows that you are a compulsive liar”, he’d say.

These words became – ‘her mantra’ – as she had heard these lines so many times from the all powerful man. This monster, who sat in her father’s chair, ate at her father’s table, and slept in her father’s bed.

This evil man who violated her on every occasion that he had, this man of the cloth, a preacher man, who would they believe?  A child, who was constantly in trouble at home and school, or this man of God? 

She did not stand a chance.

How much more would she need to endure, before the life was drained out of her, until she had lost all hope, and drifted so far outside of herself that she was unable to return, to go back inside her own mind. She had tried to run and hide countless times, but he always managed to find her and bring her back home again. So she learnt to leave her state of mind, and drift to another time, another place.

Sometimes she could even see herself on the ceiling looking down at another young child, lying on a bed with a brute of a man soiling her, a little girl that was not her; she wondered who that little girl was and why she did not scream for help.

Why she chose to say silent and still.

And she was all alone with these thoughts and feelings, as she had no-one she could confide in, no-one would believe her, the man of faith had told her so, so it had to be true.

“Children should be seen and not heard!”

“Honour thy mother and thy father!”

“Don’t speak, until you are spoken to!”

“Enough.” Monica heard herself scream.

I’ve probably woken the neighbour again, she thought. Oh well, she’ll have another complaint to make to the council against me. She moved away from the window, opened the fridge and reached for another can of strong cider instead. Her mind started wandering again, and this time she thought of what the neighbours must think of her….

“Why doesn’t she just stop drinking, she has a child and should be grateful”.

“She should be a proper mother!”

“I heard she had another fella’ over the other night, ooooh, she is a real slag!”

These were the words used to describe her, or so she had been told. She knew that these were truthful assumptions, which her ‘friendly’ neighbourhood made, on her behalf. They were right, some on them, most of them; they had her ‘well and truly sussed’.

What did they really know about her life? They were quick to judge her but they were not there to see how hard her life had been, what she had had to deal with when she was young.

How she ran away from home at her first chance, fleeing the cruelty and abuse, and leaving her hell behind. Straight into the arms of a man and suddenly, unexpectedly, before she knew it, she was pregnant.

She was, however, not ready to bear a child, nor did she request motherhood, and she most certainly did not choose to fall pregnant at the age of sixteen. Regrettably, she only saw Jake for who he truly was when she had informed him that she was “with-child”.

She was only a child herself, when she discovered that she was pregnant, she was so ill-informed concerning the ‘birds and the bees’, and even less informed regarding contraception. In all honestly, she was hardly prepared for a sexual relationship, however, she was so willing to please Jake.

Then there was her fear of abandonment, a dread that forced her to cling on so tightly that she would have done anything for him, and she did. He was fifteen years her senior, and on the third night of their ‘courtship’, after pouring vodka down her neck in bucket-loads, he forced himself onto her and they had sex!

She was so ‘out-of-it’, she did not realise what was happening at the time, but she loved him, she needed him….she needed anyone! Jake was so charming and kind, thoughtful and loving, when she had first starting going out with him; or was that how she chose to perceive him at the time?

Possibility the latter!

A girl so young, why only a child, and all she wanted was someone to love her, someone to notice her, someone to care. Therefore, she needed to limit her choice and choose wisely, ‘cut the crap’. She chose the first person who came along and showed her any form of attention.

Monica craved attention! She was starved of affection as a child.

Remembering her past, she wondered why she had allowed herself to end up in such a despondent state, what was she thinking?

Was she just a little girl seeking her ‘daddy’ in every man she encountered? If so then was that the reason she needed to sleep with every man who glanced her way, or offered her a sympathetic phrase of comfort, or pledged to shower her with tomorrows so full of promise?

Domestic bliss
Does not exist
No matter what they say.
The countless nights
I had to feel, the force
Of your fist against my jaw.
Broken ribcage
Five times, maybe more.
Green eyes, once shining
Have deaden.
My once attractive appearance
Has turned into bruises and marks 
While scars are now imprinted
Upon my ivory skin
Beauty, now deformed.
Yet, I allow you to enter
as if, I begged for this all.
Sirens surrounding
flashing blue lights
As I lay in a pool
of my own blood.
Fading in and out
Of consciousness
I watch, as they take you 
away for sentencing. 
How long can they 
keep you from me
the moment you escape
the long arm of the law.
You’ll return in a rage
to destroy me once more.
Once strong, I would hope to
fight back, and to prove
I have a choice.
Not to be so abused
but to stand up to you. 
With all of my might
and knock you right down
for justice, my right.
To be free, from this 
domestic violence
no-one should endure.
What I need to face
laid here on the floor
no honour or grace.
As the drag you away
the monster you are
the one who had just
jumped on my head and
Smash in my face.

“Sad, pathetic, you are so goddamn pathetic”, her critic voice bellowed louder than ever as she swigged another mouthful of pure poisonous liquid.

They say history repeats itself. Well her mother Margaret was an alcoholic, and suffered constantly from depression and, painful for Monica, she was emotionally unavailable. She was about most of the time, somewhere in the house, drinking, entertaining men, sleeping.

Those are the memories that Monica will forever hold of her mother, along with her mother’s other personality traits – self-centered, sarcastic, dogmatic and cruel.

“There you go again, speaking of your mother in such an immature way!”

“You should respect her, she gave birth to you.”

The voices again, telling her that this was all her fault.

If she had only been a good girl, then her mother would have loved her. She blamed herself for her mother’s unhappiness, for her mother’s drinking and depression. Time and time again her mother had informed her that if she had not been born, then her mother would have been on stage.

“If it were not for you”, became her mother’s mantra all through her childhood. So much so that Monica believed it was all her fault.

Anger inside
Eats me alive
Sweet memories
Childhood bliss
Not my memories
Not in my youth
You told me lies
I asked for truth
Roses are red
Bruises are blue
A slap in the face
For me from you
My low self esteem
This lack of worth
My broken dreams
All screwed up and insecure
Distrusting loveless life
Just as you told me
Still cut like a knife
Roses are red
Violence is blue
A punch in the face
For me from you
The future is bright 
Amount to nothing
My destiny is golden
Die with nothing
You gave me life
I asked for nothing
You gave me nothing
I got what I had coming
Roses are red
What can I do?
Sweet memories
of families - blue

Sitting at the kitchen table, she was suddenly transported back to another memory of being a child. She must have been seven years old, and she saw herself sat with her back against her bedroom door, hoping her fragile, slender body would be able to keep the adults at bay.

She recalled her mother’s heckling, that haunted smoky chuckle, which sounded as if it was a merciless howl, exorcised from a witch’s parlour.

She recalls the fear that consumed her, as she floated away into a dreamlike trance until she was upon the ceiling looking down at a little girl, sat silent, in terror. Who was that little girl that she saw sat there, where was her mother, why was she all alone?

Why was she crying? Were those tears leaving salty tracks down her little innocent face? As she tried to block out her feelings, while blocking out the noise, the voices of all these adults as they laughed at her.

So sad, so pitiful, so very alone.

Her mother’s taunts where not the only fearful things she needed to deal with on a regular basis. No, there were the rest of her mother’s many boyfriends, who decided that she was more entertaining and fulfilling than her mother was in every way. And so they would abuse her while her mother turned a blind eye, as they would fill her mother’s pockets with ‘gold’, they would fill Monica’s life with fear and loathing.

The countless times she was forced to do unspeakable things to entertain these men, as they entered her room, and would do as they chose. While her mother lay in a drunken stupor in the next room, snoring as if she were a fat hog that had been drugged and was in a deep sleep.

Whenever she hears her mother snore, the sound of her mother gurgling is the noise that to this day still haunts Monica, and causes her to want to vomit. It is no wonder that she grew up to be a the way she is.

“Ring-a-ring-a-rosy 
a pocket full of posy 
A-tissue, a-tissue 
the walls fall down”.

She remembered how she hid in the darkness of her bedroom every night, and listen to her mother announce at the top of her voice how her daughter was her ‘mothers ruin’, as she sipped her gin and tonic. The irony. She wondered if her mother even saw the irony. She doubted it. Her mother was not the sharpest pencil in the box, or the brightest star. No, her mother did not shine.

Nonetheless, Monica was extremely clever. She excelled in every subject at school and was always top of the class. Yes, Monica was going to be a star! That was what all the teachers thought. However, just as her little girl misfortune, she did not stand a chance, as she too had not chosen wisely when her little soul decided to become the child of her mother.

Suddenly, Monica felt a cold shiver run down her spine.

“Oh my god!” she thought. “I am repeating history, I am becoming my mother. Why on earth did I not see this before?”

With that thought, she ran over to the kitchen sink and threw up, the taste of cider coming up through her nostrils, as she heaved up the remainders of the can into the sink, all over herself and the floor. She broke down, and sitting on the dirty kitchen floor – Monica wept!

She cried her heart out!

The reality that she had skilfully kept at bay was not longer staying dormant and the truth was pouring out of her ever pore. All that suffering that she had experienced as a child, that very suffering that she was forcing her own daughter to endure. All that pain came oozing out, as she realised she needed help.

“Someone, anyone, please help me to help myself!” She cried out for a hug.

She laid there for two hours sobbing her heart out, letting go of twenty years of inner pain. Letting go of all the hurtful times she felt abandoned by the father her mother refuse to mention, let alone talk about. She was dismissed if she tried to enquire the where-a-bouts of this mysterious man, this man who had left her in the claws of Satan’s daughter.

She let out all the anger and loneliness that she had ever felt, not only as a child but as a young woman too. She let it all go.

In complete desolation, she lay on the floor in the foetus position, rocking herself in an attempt to calm her soul, and find some solace within.

“Hush-a-bye baby, 
on the tree top.
When the wind blows 
the cradle will rock………” 
Knock 
Knock, knock!

“Monica, are you home?” Alice shouted through the letter box.

“Crap!” thought Monica, as she leap up and tried simultaneously to wash the vomit from her nightdress, face, hair and the floor.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” she muttered under her breath.

“I am coming Alice, hold on a minute”, she shouted at the front door, hoping that Alice would not make the short journey around to the back door.

Once Monica had reclaimed herself sufficiently, she made her way to the front door and opened it. Alice stood in the door way, her compassionate smile and friendly face greeted Monica.

“Everything OK?” she asked.

Monica gestured for her to enter and the moment Alice had stepped inside the door, Monica broke down. Alice suggested they go sit down and then empathically listened to Monica’s grief. Monica was able to expel all her painful memories for her witness to hear, and thereafter she felt validated and relieved.

She asked Alice what she needed to do to rectify this tragedy she had created, no longer did she want to bash her head against the wall, nor wake up inside this hell which called itself her life.

Broken

I feel broken

 you look broken.
Frustrated

nothing said

words unspoken.
Confusion

devastation

heartbreaking.
Not my life

forgiven

forsaken.
Hollow eyes

hollow soul

hollow look.
Not the person she used to be

I shook.
Shaken, shatter, stir,

something’s wrong.
Lost, torn, lost,

worn, lost, gone.
Different, changed

such a shame
Excuses lame, not a life

just a game.
Gob-smacked

speechless
Smoked smack

outrageous.
Stolen, disappearing

vanished
Sad, down, hurt, clown

banished.
Unknown, unrecognisable

disguise
Untruths, fabrication

plain lies.
Bullet proof, no rescue

no saviour 
Distant, anger, fury

bad behaviour.
Wash my hands, walk away

leave, go
Participation of this destruction

no!

No, today she wanted to do something different, today she wanted to change her destiny. Alice had a great insight into addiction, and was able to signpost all the different services there were available to Monica. They discussed a day programme, nonetheless, Monica felt that this was not the best option; she thought if she was allowed to come home at night, she could not guarantee her actions.

She feared that if she left alone with these thoughts any longer, she feared for her life.

After much debated and discussion, they both decided that a residential rehabilitation programme would be more suitable. However, the downside to this decision was that Sophia would have to go into care for the twenty weeks that Monica needed to attend the programme.

Monica felt numb, as fresh tears made their way down her bony cheeks. She knew this was the only way, but this would break her little girl’s heart….