(2017) I realise now that my Mother was ill. Why or with what I haven’t a clue. Something had happened in her past that had affected her somehow, it must have been pretty horrible for her to be how she was. It has been suggested by a family mem Dad tried to intervene but to no avail. He went to work, my sister was ready for school, I was picked up off the floor and sent to my room to await mothers return from dropping my sister at school. When mother returned for the first time I was ‘cleaned’ inside and out. Aged just under 4 I was anally violated by my mother and my genitals cleaned. Aged just under 4 I was introduced to and had to clean every part of my mothers body. It was the first time of many times. Always the same, me first her second. Why?
What a h the lawn as if trying t as I called it, the bonfire patch and the bank. The bank was a raised slopping area with the trees and fence divide between the car park and the garden. I spent most of my time at the end of the garden hidden from view in the long grass or digging tunnels into the bank trying to get under the cars. As I got older I managed to climb the silver birch tree which hung over from next door. Precariously wedged pieces of wood made a small platform I could sit on and peer across the neighbours gardens. I even managed to climb one of the trees on the bank and spy on the unsuspecting Kodak workers as they parked their cars before work or were going home. No-one could see me. I was invisible, hidden in summer by the leaves and in winter by the rain or frost. No-one looked at the trees when it was cold. If only I could really be invisible, then I wouldn’t need to hide.
Although I write home Home to me was my room in Bath, the room opposite the petrol station. In this home even though I had the small front bedroom it overlooked the drive, the pavement, a small road, another pavement onto the drive and front of the house directly opposite. Quite a boring view compared to my exciting view in football, mr jones teacher slapping me)
I have spoken to psychiatrists and psychologists about the way she treated me and punished me the way she did but haven’t found a credible explanation yet. Smacking in the ’60’s was considered ‘normal’. It was the speed and instantaneous reaction to use prolonged violence, not 1 smack and finished but to keep on lashing out at me. Not a ladies pitch of shouting or anger but screaming. Invariably I ran and hid in the toilet which was the only room except the bathroom with a lock. For a while she’d stand outside banging on the door telling