Postman Pat & the secret

Warning; this is not light Sunday evening reading. This is dark heavy shit  I hope though it gives an insight to who I am. The things that happened when I was growing up shaped my thought patterns and later my own behaviour.

Every day in school the girls would be telling each other how they’d got their periods and how they were all in a bra and they’d graduated from crop tops. It was the summer holidays and I was glad to have a break from  lying about having my period.  It was about 10 days after my 13th birthday and I came on for the first time ever. I was so excited I was a woman finally. I had my period. I was normal and finally I was one of the girls.

I barged into my mother’s room and jumped up and down on the bed screaming like a loon telling her I had had my period and it was right then I knew something was off but I was so caught up in the euphoria of being normal at last and completely absorbed in myself that I didn’t stop to take a moment. I went off to do my thing, probably to tell my diary what an awesome day this was.

It can’t have been more than an hour later when my father asked me where my mother was. I said that she’d told me she was going down the road for milk. I think we all knew then that something was wrong. She had been gone a bit too long and the shops wouldn’t have been open that early anyway so it didn’t take a detective to figure out shit was going down.  I went to her friend’s house to ask if they had seen her and she been there knocking on the door asking to borrow some milk and then had left.  My father discovered all her anti depressants had gone and he telephoned the police.

The police were in the house. They wanted to search the house and I was really angry because I thought if she was in the house why would we have rung you but that was my 13 year old perspective not realising they had a job to do. I had to take them to the top of the garden so they could search the shed and again I was really angry because I thought they were wasting time. My mother had disappeared somewhere with a shit load of tablets and they were looking for her in our shed and if she was in the shed we would have found her because we already  looked in the shed and she definitely wasn’t there and I knew that she was very short but I definitely wouldn’t have missed her had she been in the shed.

By this time the neighbours knew. The neighbours knew that my crazy mother had disappeared with a shitload of tablets and a couple of pints of milk and had gone off to take an overdose. The helicopter arrived soon after that.  The police,the helicopter, my neighbours, my brother’s, my dad and myself searched for my mother. We spent the whole day searching for my mother and the whole time we were searching I prayed. I prayed like I have never prayed before “Please don’t let my mum be dead. Please don’t let my mum be dead. Please bring my mum back to me.  Please don’t let my mum be dead”.

I don’t know how long it was after that but we had the telephone call to say that they’d found her picked her up and taken her to hospital.  Everything was a bit of a blur. I remember arriving at the hospital and seeing my mother laying on a bed with a long plastic tube hanging out of the side of her mouth with was covered in charcoal and crying. I had two overwhelming feelings at that point, relief, thank god she was alive. My mother had not died. I had not lost my mother that day and the second was overwhelming pain.  Why didn’t my mother love me enough to want to stick around and look after me? Why did she hate us so much that she wanted to get away from us?

Nobody took me to one side to tell me that it wasn’t my fault. Noone took me to one side to tell me that my mothers’ suicide attempt was nothing to do with her feelings about me. Nobody talked to me about it at all. We weren’t allowed to talk about it. In fact I was told by lots of different people not to talk to my mother about it. We weren’t allowed to talk to anybody about it. If there was something wrong or if we were worried about something or we had a problem we were  told to keep it to ourselves because our mother had enough on her plate. My mother was depressed and they were afraid that if we bothered her with our problems it might tip her over the edge again so anything which meant that when my dad sexually abused me a few months later while my mother was in hospital having been sectioned  I had it drummed into me that I couldn’ tell anybody so I kept it to myself.

They say every cloud has got a silver lining and on the bright side he never asked me to shove a dildo up his ass.

2 thoughts on “Postman Pat & the secret

  1. Love your honesty and talking about very taboo subjects. We talk about it all the time and my kids know it wasn’t their fault and that they are loved x


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