I have never been afraid. I have never been judgemental.
But I have been afraid of being judgemental.
I first started to experiment with drugs when I was seventeen.
Granted, I had left home at seventeen - but the drugs and experimentation was not consequential of this.
Should I start with why I left home?
Yes, why not ?
I left home because I had to. Even as a child , very small and afraid, I would count down the days until I could leave that horrible house. It reeked of sadness and frustration. It still does, but it doesn't own me the way it does when your a child. When you just want everything to be perfect or at least a chance to be. Just a chance. Some kids never had one.
It seemed like my childhood was an endless prison sentence, my stepmother a looming menace in my life clutching keys to my vanished peace of mind.
My homelife confronts me, when I gaze like a foreigner, upon albums of Birthdays, Christmas and other Special days, it seems on the surface the same as anyone else's. Why couldn't it be ?
I am not smiling in the photos. I look like my heart is already broken. I look tough.
Unfortunately, I was a very good liar.
My birth mother and I were separated when I was six. She simply dropped me at school and told me she would never see me again. Unfortunately, this was the one promise she would ever manage to keep. It was a sad day and an important one. I remember staring so hard at the horizon, daring not to blink and the car wavered on the heatline and then disapeared forever.
In my heart of hearts, I knew I would not see her again. And I haven't. She wrote a few times and I fell asleep with the tear stained letters grasped in my tiny hands, it was all I had.
Then she stopped writing - but I never stoped loving.
My mother did not get custody of me when my Father remarried , for a few reasons, some of them I know, some I have never been told or explained. Family versions of Urban Legends, hurtful things that get whispered as a child, when they think you are not listening.
But you hear. And you wonder. Things that are said over the dinner table to other adults.
Drug Addict. Didn't want her. Court Custody Lost. Like headlines in some horrible story that you can't believe is becoming your life. Strangers became stayers in my life. My father remarried and his new wife brought a son. He ended touching me in ways that I later learnt was not the way brothers behave. Things happen though and I am not searching for sympathy. Certainly not from strangers.
I only search for answers.
In my mind (as is common with childhood memories) my mother is an angel, she is larger than life. Warm and embracing. My Mother's image is sunlit from behind, the sun weaving golden threads through her blonde hair, motes swimming drunkedly in the sunset , swarming like a halo. She is smiling and her arms are outstretched to me. She is wearing a light cotton dress and she smells like comfort. Her eyes - my eyes - are shining with health and pride. I just remember those outstretched arms. How sad I don't remember how it felt there.
Its wierd to summarise such a huge impact on my person in one paragraph , I promise we will go back there in time, I just want to make progress in the illustration of how I became the heroine of this story. Well I guess it is not a story, it is my life. ( That made me smile )
I dont remember much of my childhood , except it lagged and hurt me alot. I think my stepmother would be hurt to read such things, but I confronted her last Mother's Day.
I spoke confrontingly , blurting it out in the supermarket carpark .....
She looked down at her shoes as if they could validate her existance. She could not face me directly.
"Why did you treat me so bad?" I said almost crying, but on that edge of anger that you get so that you can't. Just teetering, and thats how it is for most daughters who don't get on with The Stepmother's.
" I was a good child, so full of love - TELL ME I WAS GOOD ENOUGH ! " I waited, dubious she would satisfy the huge chasm of unrequited love I had.
I felt five again, on the steps of the new house where I met The Stepmother for the first time. I was scared, nervous and very keen to please as only a child can be. I remember her eyes, summing me up. I remember her hands , washing my hair and my sins.
She spoke , suddenly looking very tired and haunted by things beyond the muddy brown of her eyes, her own selfish misery lurking within.
" You were. You dont know how many times I have regretted how we treated you, it makes me ashamed as I love you , like a daughter now" She starts to cry, just lightly. Nothing like tears I have cried, or kept inside. Just muffled, like a whimper without reason.
I become uncomfortable, its like aloe on sunburn , a slight comfort but still leaves you sticky and stinging later on.
What more could I ask ? Plenty. What more could she give.
Nothing. As a mother she was spent. She would have to fight to be my friend.
Not that I am difficult. I am not and never will be. I am an open book. I'm an open embrace, a wide smile and a beckoning gesture. Stepmother and I are working on adult friendship now.
As for Stepbrother, he will get his just desserts. Revenge is a dish best served cold. And it's only lately there has been a change in the weather.
So by now , people reading will notify the red flags and neatly presume this is why I became a drug addicted WG. I cannot say exactly for a moment if any of my childhood did not entice me to do heroin, I think in many ways I just wanted to try it and then I got addicted.
I conceed that perhaps better education of drug use as a child could of benefited me the luxury of knowing the consequences of choosing this direction. But I made it to the end.
Well it's definately not over. It is only the beggining. I want to help people that have been in one or many of the vast situations I have been in. From the gutter to the stars.
Thats where I am headed.
One blog at a time.
Love HG X