‘The most terrible poverty is loneliness and the feeling of being unloved’ Mother Teresa of Calcutta
It was late on a cold miserable February evening in 1987, I was returning home from a drink with a friend. As a student in my final year at art college, nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to find. I opened the door to our small terraced council house and instead of the usual welcoming fuss from the dog, a motionless limb in the hallway alerted me to a grim discovery, my mother lay dead at the foot of the stairs.
The horror which unfolded following her tragic demise was frankly nothing in comparison to the misery I had been living with for as long as I could remember. Her death was far from a surprise, but more of a release as my meagre existence though out all of my childhood was marred by a dark secret, my mother was an alcoholic.
You see, she suffered from a disease, a crippling dependency to alcohol which could only have been healed by her own acknowledgement of it. Instead, she dwelt only in self pity and a slow, degrading loss of self respect. This wretched addiction and the effect it had on me was to blight my life as a child, and follow me into adulthood like a silent unspoken curse revealing itself like a wicked spell, at times of weakness and utter desperation.
To outsiders, friends, teachers, and neighbors, I was a regular, teenager, thriving on an endless round of after school activities, hankering after the latest fashions and, like most kids I knew, singing along to the top 40 every Sunday evening with my hairbrush microphone! I was always turned out neatly to school, homework and piano practice accomplished. However, the menace of our silent secret weighed heavily on my shoulders and no one else could see or feel my misery.
Bottles of Gordon's Gin and cans of Carlsberg Special Brew were customary fare in our house and it was not until her death that the true extent of my mothers’ drinking became apparent. I discovered hordes of empty bottles and cans concealed behind cupboards, in drawers, under beds in the garage in boxes and bins. Tangible evidence of a secretive habit hidden from everyone bar those nearest to her. What a waste. What a disgrace. My disgrace.
Thankfully, my wonderful friends and time at school was a distraction from my mothers unpredictable and irrational behavior and her unrelenting course of self destruction. Each day, having made my way home on the train, finishing the mile long journey to the house on foot, the familiar dread of what lay ahead for the evening provoked a feeling of desolation. To wake up the following morning, no matter what had erupted the night before, and once again complete the routine, have to accomplish yet another day, with the crippling burden of such sorrow weighing me down was exhausting.
I first realized there was something odd about my mother from around the age of about seven or eight. The consequence her drinking in my early years was an unbelievable lack of security for me as a developing child. No assurance of a warm comfortable, nurturing and stable home. Little encouragement for my work or schooling and grades achieved even with all the madness going on around me, instead, time and time again, I was made to suffer her rages, characterized by her bitterness and resentment. I cleaned, shopped, cooked and cared. Vitriol, violence, friction, disruption and abuse were part of everyday life, the abuse was physical and mental, the torment unbearable. A little girl tormented by the very person I was meant to trust, admire, look up to and confide in? My life felt bleak and empty and although I was part of a community, I felt isolated and alone.
I became a carer, a parent and a grown up long before I should have done, crossing the threshold into adult life with huge responsibilities, when I should have been playful, immature and having fun! For this lost time as a child, I cannot forgive. Finally now though, I am beginning to grieve for two things, my mothers death and my lost childhood.
However, to those reading this who have suffered and been affected by similar circumstance, Someone else’s addiction should not be your shame, and the fact that you cannot make that person better or change the way they are is also not your fault. I want you to know, there is light at the end of the tunnel, people who can help you to heal and help yourself become strong. If you follow your passion and keep trying, you really can be successful and live a fulfilled life.
Twenty four years has literally vanished, I can scarcely believe I am now a forty four year old mother, an accomplished designer with a beautiful daughter, and busy life. My drive, determination and search for perfection, I can only think is the result of my marred, disfigured childhood and my resolve to do things differently for my daughter.
Its just such a shame I have not been able to share any of my life’s consequence with my mother who would I know, have been very proud of my success and achievements, not to mention her beautiful little grand daughter. She was herself a fabulously creative person with much talent, a creative soul with a wealth of knowledge about the arts, perhaps imparted to me somehow along the transient existence of my childhood.
