Left Behind: A Personal Story.

As time unfolds, and wrinkles close. I run, but tumble into seams unsewn.

I ask you to take a walk with me through my journey thus far, and my perspective on it. I've developed into a multi faceted person, one of high passion. But within that mix of self, There is a lot of internal strife. As it stands currently, I am not happy. I'm alone and it's starting to feel it will always be this way. As of writing this, I am 22. I have no family and few friends. If that situation sounds inconceivable to you, know that I am glad.

My early life was haunted by an aura of depravity that has followed me since. For my first three years, I lived with my mother and father in England. They were tightly in the grips of heroin addiction by the time I was born. I believe I have a memory of this time period, it's of my mother. But I don't trust the reliability of a memory this old. I can't definitively describe the environment of that home, but from my own experience later in life. I can say it was bad. When I was three, my father was sent to jail. He had violently robbed and hurt an older woman. I've only ever seen him a few times since this.

We were relocated to my grandparents in Scotland. Again not something I personally remember but its common consensus that we were told that it was for a weekend. Regardless of deception or uncertainty. This was the purest time of my life. Those first few years with a real family. The memories I do have from this time, are warm. They have an almost mystical quality. Of course many of these memories will be false. But I know from them, that at this time I was happy. My mother was not in the picture at all for these few years. This highly effected us, my older brother especially. He would keep a pair of her leggings or a top or something, under his pillow. He would smell it to comfort himself. A practice me and my younger brother adopted later in life. I remember both my grandparents as happy, funny people. They lived in the house with their disabled daughter, my auntie. From my understanding my grandparents had 3 daughters, 2 of which were disabled and then my mother. Life was stable, it really was home. But then my auntie died. I believe this to be the catalyst that caused the degradation of purity. Not only do I know that this event crushed my grandparents emotionally, I believe it also changed their financial standing. I don't know of any member of my family with a career, I don't even know if my mother ever worked. The closest thing I've heard is my grandfather talking about the potato fields. Before they lived in the house I knew as home, my family were travellers or gypsies. It's my belief that the disability payment was at least a part of the financial stability we had at the time. So that disappearing along with my aunt, created a spiral that my grandparents couldn't quite handle. On top of their immense loss, my mother re-entered the picture. I can only imagine what it would have been like for my grandparents.

This is around the time I have my first unquestionable memories from. I would say this period lasted from when I was around 6 to 8. The memories are not fond. A fight ensued. My mother, clean from drugs. Wanted her rights for us back. Excitement is the defining emotion I remember. But even at this age there was fear, I knew my mother to be scary at times. She had been back before, a few times. She would scream, throw things and try to take us away. Despite all of that, I was happy to have her back.

She won, she beat the arguments of my grandparents and the obvious facts on display. I have no idea how this happened, actually I do. A few times in my life, social workers have made inexplicable decisions, I hope it's just pure incompetence rather than something malicious. But sometimes it feels malicious. My mother was not clean at all. We moved into this small flat, I believe it was a 2 bed. But we all slept in the living room, on a shared double mattress. I was young, but I remember how scared I was here. And hungry, hunger is all too familiar to me but this was the first time, that I could remember. There are so many flashes of strangers in the house, and other flashes of us in strangers houses. Small metal pans, used to cook heroin. And needles everywhere. My mother at this time was a prostitute, we would be with her during this. The memories I have of this time, are visceral. And I believe they seriously effected the development of my young mind.

'The police are coming to take you, your grandad phoned them on us. They are going to come and take us all away.' But what does that mean, how could he do that? The pulsing energy coming from my chest shooting through my body, stressing my mind. My stomach is sharp and warm, it feels like it's about to collapse on itself. My vision blurring in accordance with my increasing heart rate. We need to leave! My younger brother in complete distress, my older brother eating dry cereal out of a bowl. We were watching a pirated DVD of Avatar at this time. The lack of concern from my older brother I remember bothering me so much, now makes much more sense. Focusing on Avatar was the better option. The police did come, we were returned to our grandparents. This memory is the first time I was overcome with stress and anxiety to the point of those symptoms, but this too would become familiar to me.

We were back at our grandparents, but things were not as warm. They never would be again. I think they were just defeated, I would be. My mother was in and out at this time. Briefly showing up with a whirlwind of problems for all of us. Life at this time was especially hard for me, I was starting to realise that my life was not normal. But telling anyone could harm my family. It was a huge moral quandary for me. On top of this, we were constantly threatened with foster care. We were told stories of sexual abuse, glass in the food. And people disappearing. Personally now as an adult, I look back at these threats. And I see the deep insecurity, it was a threat because they were scared we would want escape. This realisation is something that saddens, angers and sickens me all at the same time.

I was so lonely. School at this time was terrible, I had no friends. I was 'dirty' and my mum was a 'junkie'. The otherness I felt, made me question my role or value in this world I was born out of. At this young age I developed a form of Truman syndrome, it all felt too much to be random. There was no religion in the household, yet I would talk to whoever was watching. I called it god but if I'm honest I'm unsure where that notion came from. I used to cry when things went wrong and talk to this god, I would beg for my mother to get better or to return. I would also be very apologetic, I would confess to anything I felt was a wrongdoing. Fearing punishment. I believe this behaviour was a reflection of my deep anxiety and stress at the time. Another manifestation of this anxiety was the intense fear of being bombed. When planes would pass, I would run to a place I felt was safe. Shouting that they were going to bomb us. I believe that this was probably due to fear instilled by news, the news was the main thing on inside the house. My thinking is that some fear campaign was particularly effective on me due to my age and prior anxiety.

My grandparents were struggling with us, I think mainly due to my mothers interference. My grandfather particularly started to slip. He had always had a gambling addiction, but this very strange relationship formed. When my mothers addiction got worse, so would his. Logically this makes sense, but I also think there's a tragic beauty to it. As the worsening was a reflection of misplaced care. Or maybe that's wishful thinking. As their addictions spiralled, so too did my life. Arguments were all day every day. Screaming matches with the occasional bout of thrown hands. My grandmother, an angel was never involved. But she spiralled too, in terms of health. And I want to make the not so bold claim, that this was directly related to the behaviour of my mother and grandfather.

It can be quite troubling for me to recount these times, there were physical fights. Not slaps but punches and slams, I'm a person who enjoys to grapple with ethics and the concept of morality. But looking back on these memories I am unsure where to even begin. My mother, highly intoxicated and violent. She could be really dangerous in this mode. My grandfather, bitter and rage filled. Acting out of protective instincts but the rage was very visibly in control. I hated my life. I barely got the chance to conversate with any adults. It was just the other kids at school who were disgusted by me, and my brothers who I've always been different from. When my grandfather would give in to defeatism, we would be taken by our mother. This was more of the same. Dealers houses, different crack houses and on the road prostitution. Walking all over the city with my mother. My feet would ache and I would beg to go home. Being taken to a strange flat, with needles and general mess everywhere. I'd know we've arrived at the right building or door by the intense smell. Then my mother would do what she would does. I can't describe the fear as a child of watching four or five adults sit around you, cook up something that has this smell that sticks to your skin. All while they talk through their noses in some form of tongues. Then they inject and all sway and nod, before they collapse in on themselves. Making what sounds like death moans. I'd sit there for hours, pushing and slapping my mum. But she would never wake up. I thought she was going to die every day.

I resented the dealers and other addicts she was surrounded by. Something I am not ashamed to admit, is that when the dealers would nod off I would consider violent action. I never did act on those feelings, and I'm glad they never continued to develop. I was around 8 or 9 and very angry, But I knew I wanted to be different than what I saw around me. My older brother however did develop violent and anti social tendencies, he became a bully to me and my younger brother. It wasn't always bad but there were events. One time he tried to set our mattress on fire as we slept. Me and my younger brother shared a mattress, we woke up of course in terror. But he swears to this day there was no real intention behind it. His behaviour and interactions with the law, resulted in him being taken into a residential care unit. He was the first to go.

If she wasn't taking us, she was leaving us. The recurrence of her disappearing was also very taxing. Sometimes she would be gone for just a few days, sometimes months. One time, she had already been gone for a few months. I was getting very acquainted with the anxiety and pulsing of my entire being, including my vision. I was terrified and nobody would tell me where she was. I wouldn't eat, or sleep. Or talk about anything that wasn't where she was. One day my grandfather got her on the phone. She claimed she had been kidnapped and was being forced to take drugs. I believed her at the time, and it only made me more scared. It's obvious as an adult that this was a not so clever excuse for both her absence and relapse. Her brain at this time must have been clouded, majorly. Because what a shit excuse, one that makes things worse. My mother didn't return like usual this time, we were told she was in the hospital.

She had lost her leg. Through her own negligence, she continued to inject into her infected leg. Until they had to cut it off. When my granddad took us to the hospital, I could barely look at her. The same sharpness and heat was in my stomach when I saw what used to be my mothers leg. How could she do this to herself? I knew at this time, that my mother would die. I knew she was killing herself. Wheelchair mother felt almost like a new evolution, she was even less stable. More detached. My brothers and I would joke that she was faster and stronger than ever. But it was true, she was. And even more infatuated with drugs. After losing the leg, she stopped heroin for a while. But her crack and Valium use just increased. With my older brother gone and my younger brother so young, it was again my job to go on the runs with my mother. This is the time of my life of which truly changed me. I was with her all of the time, it was just us. I would be pushing her wheelchair all around the city, this was especially difficult as her Valium use was so bad. She would nod off while I was at the helm, she wouldn't be able to help push or even tell me where to go. These events were scary but I always managed to get her home, even if that wasn't the planned destination. I felt responsible for her and closer than I'd ever been. I took pride, then. But now I see I was just aiding in her drug use. On school days I got physical rest, but emotionally it was exhausting. Nobody would go near me, I felt even some of the teachers looked at me as lesser than the other pupils. This forced me into the mentality that I was different, that I was stuck in this role. Destined for non inclusion.

I was pushing my mother home, Struggling with the final hill. My arms were burning and my throat was sticking together. Then she made the proposition that cemented my life of turmoil. 'If you get me up that hill, you can toke my joint'. This was one of the worst things anyone has ever done to me. I accepted with giddy, It felt as if I was joining the club. My initiation, my right of passage. I was 9. And that she did, she let me smoke weed with her. I never got high the first time, but what I did feel was connection to my mother.

If you read this far, thank you. I plan to continue this piece, to present day. But it's emotionally taxing so I'm done for now. :)