Part Ten – Girl, Interrupted….

We continued to be together, though cracks were very much visible to the outside world. But in true lovesick teenager form, I didn’t see them. Maybe I was in too deep? Totally.

I noticed that a new thing seemed to rise up in me now and then. Firey Rage.

We started to argue, to fight. I discovered anger inside that I couldn’t release in any way but to be destructive.

Smashing windows, wrecking doors, taking out banisters, furniture — it was like nothing was safe. It was especially worse on the days when I couldn’t access the crutch I used to keep everything suppressed.

Then I noticed that drinking even more kind of numbed things for a while, but it was an unpredictable addition to an already turbulent situation.

I was arrested several times. Mostly for being drunk and disorderly. My name is easily mispronounced, and when they would call me by a slightly different variation of my name, it just made me see red. I’d shout and scream and be wild, they would just handcuff me, put me in a car, take me to the station, and put me in a holding cell to calm down till the morning.

Then came the day I dreaded. The day he was moved out to a shared house on the other side of the city.

It was a small room. He had a leaving care grant of £100 to cover the cost of basic things he would need. Which really only covered some kitchen items and some basic bedding.

It wasn’t long before my time came.

I was moved to a small flat. Fifth floor of the house, only stairs, no lift, my main living area in the attic, and down two flights of stairs to pee. I didn’t think this would be a problem until I needed to pee at 2 a.m, dashing down in the wee small hours hoping I didn’t wake anyone else up.

But I had a place that I could call mine. It was a bit nicer than his place. As I understand it, we had slightly different provision because he was classed as “accommodated” and I was a Ward of Court. I didn’t really understand how the two were different, but apparently, it meant I got slightly longer under their wings, and as I wasn’t able to sign for benefits, I’d get a cheque I could cash for around £35 a week to cover anything I might need — my rent etc was covered by Social Services.

He would often stay at mine. There was a strict no-smoking policy which we tried to get around by putting a sock over the fire alarm. It seemed to work and meant no one knew we were smoking up there — until the day my landlord did an unannounced visit while I was out. He found the cannabis smoking paraphernalia and the covered fire alarm and terminated my tenancy immediately.

So I stayed with him for a few nights, then was told my stuff had been bagged up and moved to a room in a shared house. The keys were dropped to me, and I was told I’d have to go and collect my money each week — a good 7 miles walking round trip. But I didn’t have a choice.

He didn’t seem to have an income at the time. I can’t recall why, but later understood that he simply couldn’t be bothered to sign on to get a giro. But then why would he, when he had me and my regular supply of funds?

I foolishly chose to support the two of us, but he had stolen something off a housemate where he lived. He arrived home one day to a threatening letter pinned to his door, telling him in no uncertain terms if he returned, there would be consequences.

It turns out he was funding his habit any way he could, stealing from housemates and selling what he could to make sure he always had access to the drug that seemed to be the only thing that kept him sedated enough day to day not to be aggressive or abusive.

Only with the letter pinned to the door, and me being really quite worried about it, the only option left was to go to the place where all my stuff had been moved to. I had the keys. It was super late at night, but we arrived quietly. I tried the lock on my door with the key I was given.

To my utter horror, there was a stranger asleep in the bed that was supposed to be mine. Which meant we had nowhere to go. Officially homeless, we stayed overnight in the local train station waiting room. It was the only place that felt safe. But just one night of that, and it was clear we couldn’t do this for very long, so I contacted the one person who might help.

My mother.

We arrived at hers and she was welcoming enough. She had a spare room in her flat and was happy to let me use it on one condition: Social Services paid her £20 a week to contribute to rent. This was taken from the money they provided me with. So I’d gone from having £35 a week to £15. £15 a week to find food, supply his habit a tiny bit, and there was nothing left. It wasn’t even a choice as to whether I gave him half of the remaining money I had — if I didn’t, he would become violent and abusive. I’d believe it was my fault, and my mind just went for the easiest option that kept me somehow safe-ish.

But it wasn’t enough to live on. Trying to feed two people on £7.50 a week meant getting creative or starving. My mother didn’t provide anything to eat, and the freezer was bare except for bags of frozen peas and sweetcorn. I went hungry a great deal of the time.

There was also no point buying anything to last because any food I bought, my mother felt was her right to eat. So many days I’d drink water to fill my stomach, tricks I’d learned from being younger. And just like when I was younger, there was usually only pet food, coffee granules, and occasionally milk — but my mother made it very clear this was hers. Though in desperation, I’d sneak a black cup of coffee so there was some different taste in my system.

I’d scour for anything, pennies, anything to try and add something to the amount I was to live on. But there still remained more days than not where I didn’t eat.

We had been there for a few months, not really having a plan past the next day, when something changed everything.

I discovered I was pregnant. With our son.

Missed a bit?

←Part Nine – Her Name Is India

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→ Part Eleven – Take These Broken Wings And Learn To Fly…

Part Four – The New Foster Parent

Another placement. Another stranger. Another house that wasn’t mine.

I was placed with a new foster mother — just her and me. No other children. Just us.

The house smelled odd. A mix of faded patchouli, old sadness, and Imperial Leather soap. I walked in gingerly, I didn’t know what to expect.

It was a nice enough house, and being here meant I was closer to my maternal grandmother — my mum’s mum. She was ace. Childlike in the best way. Funny. Naughty. A die-hard Walt Disney fan. She could make magic out of the mundane. If she stood just right in her flat, the radio signal would cut out. She’d chuckle madly. I’ll come back to her story one day. She deserves her own chapter.

⸻

My new room was off a study — the weirdest layout. A door to the left, a door to the right. Mine was the right. It didn’t matter. I unpacked in silence and perched on the bed, trying to make peace with the new reality.

Another clean house. Immaculately so. Sterile, even. I was in for two shocks.

The first: she worked at the local school.

The second: she told me she was a teacher.

Brilliant. Watched at home, watched at school. Just what every kid dreams of. Not.

⸻

Every day after school, she’d interrogate me about my behaviour. The teachers were “keeping an eye,” she said. I was seven — but even then, the alarm bells starting ringing.

Then came the chore list. If I wanted pocket money, I had to earn it. Twenty jobs. Twenty. It struck me that she was being paid to take me in, and I was being put to work like a maid. Still, I didn’t mind the chores too much. It gave me an excuse not to be in the sitting room with her.

The sitting room just screamed ‘Teacher, rows of books standing proudly on shelves, potted plants, a piano in the corner, and a TV hidden in a cabinet like she was trying to hide the fact she even owned one. It was a room of silence and not a room for talking.

⸻

One day, I was sitting quietly in there, trying not to breathe too loud. I shifted and let out a tiny fart. If she’d just had the TV on, I could’ve blamed it on the cat and moved on. But no. She heard it. Her face twisted in outrage like I’d defiled the Queen’s own cushions.

She banished me to the hallway. Told me to face the wall. For a tiny fart!

Though I couldn’t help but giggle at the absurdity — I was in the hallway breathing in old soap while she sat marinating in the scent of my packed lunch and her own disapproval.

After that, I wasn’t allowed back in there. Not even for a minute.

⸻

I came home, did homework in the study, ticked off my chore list, ate in silence, and went to bed.

I wrote in a diary about how much I hated it there. She found it.

She read it.

She questioned me like a detective and took it away.

I never kept a diary again.

⸻

The weeks passed. My routine was school, chores, escape. I started playing outside with the local kids. They invited me to Sunday school — not because I was religious, but because it meant I didn’t have to be in that house.

Then one Sunday, I came home and the door was locked. I knocked. No answer. Checked the back. Still nothing. Her car was gone.

I waited for hours on the step. When she finally returned, she didn’t say a word. Just unlocked the door and carried on like she hadn’t left a child stranded.

⸻

School became my escape. I leaned into music — any instrument I could get my hands on. It gave me a purpose, a sound to fill the silence.

Eventually, even she seemed to give up. She stopped caring. So I stopped trying. Stopped doing chores. Stopped speaking unless spoken to. I was sick of being treated like I should be seen and not heard.

⸻

Then came the film.

She said she’d bought something for us to watch together. I was excited — maybe she was finally going to open that cabinet and fire up the forbidden telly.

She put on Annie.

A musical about an orphan in a children’s home.

She looked at me and said,

“You should watch this. Because you’re moving to a children’s home. If you thought this place was bad, mark my words — a children’s home will be ten times worse.”

She watched my face crumble. And I swear — she smiled.

To this day, I can’t watch Annie. It sends me right back, as if I’m seven again.

I lay in bed that night, trying to imagine what came next. The film made it look like we’d be in huge dormitories, cleaning floors with toothbrushes. Just work and rules and silence. I didn’t understand how I’d ended up here.

We’d left our family home after my dad died. Moved to a council house. Then my mum became cruel. Four kids, all torn apart — me, snatched from school, turned into an instant urban legend. Passed to a foster family who were only marginally better than her. Then handed off to the real-life Grotbags. And now — a children’s home.

I genuinely didn’t know what I’d done so wrong to deserve this.

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←Back to Part Three – A Failed Plan

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→Continue to Part Five – The Children’s Home

Part Three – A Failed Plan

Well. That hit the fan.

I still didn’t understand why I’d been taken.

All I remembered from the day was looking for my school sweatshirt, and then — nothing. Just a sore back and the next moment was like I teleported to class. I tried to make sense of it, but the memory files in my head came up blank.

I really did try to behave. But when your only instructions are things like “just be quiet” or “just do as you’re told”, it’s hard to know what the rules even are. I tried to follow them anyway — and still got called naughty. I couldn’t win.

I was blamed for things I didn’t do. Or didn’t remember doing. But I was the foster kid. Might as well have had it tattooed across my forehead. Everyone seemed to know before I even opened my mouth.

But there were glimmers of light.

The village was tiny — a post office, a pub, a school, a church. There was even an old abandoned cottage that called to me. Every day I’d try to peek inside, daydreaming about what it might’ve looked like when someone lived there. Like it was frozen in time, quietly waiting for someone to notice it still mattered. I felt that way too, sometimes.

⸻

There was food. More than I was used to. Some of it was even delicious.

But then… there was the stew.

The stew deserves its own chapter.

Winter hit, and with it came the same bowl, night after night. Thick gravy, soggy vegetables, and hunks of meat marbled with slimy white fat. I tried. I really did. But one bite sent everything straight back up.

She screamed. Told me I wasn’t leaving the table until I ate every last bit — including the vomit.

So I sat. For hours. Sobbing. Gagging. Pleading silently. The stew didn’t stop. Gag. Retch. Repeat.

It’s not that I didn’t want food. I just couldn’t eat that. And besides — hunger and I were already well acquainted.

⸻

Back home, food had been rare. We always had coffee. Sometimes sugar. Milk if we were lucky. Anything out of date got eaten anyway.

What we did have plenty of — thanks to the pets — was animal food.

My sister Mia was like a mum to me. She’d sneak dog biscuits into her pocket, smear margarine on them, and call them crackers. I remember once eating a pig’s ear because someone said it was like pork scratchings. I didn’t question it. It was food. Sort of.

So no — the stew wasn’t the comforting meal it was meant to be. Even now, at 43, the smell of it can turn my stomach.

⸻

Then one day, the phone rang.

It was my brother. Shouting. Accusing. Saying I’d asked to be adopted. That I wanted to stay with this family. That I’d chosen them over him, over all of them.

I was horrified. I hadn’t said anything like that.

But later, I found out the truth.

It was my mother. She was the one considering putting me up for adoption.

And something inside me just… snapped.

My sister was still at home. My brothers were in care together, And me? I was too naughty for my mum, too naughty for the foster family, too much for everyone. I didn’t fit anywhere. I wasn’t wanted anywhere.

So I made a plan. A childish, desperate plan.

If being naughty had got me taken away, maybe being really naughty would get me sent back.

It didn’t work.

I told my foster mum I wanted to run away. She smirked and asked if I wanted a packed lunch.

Two years passed like that.

Then one day, a social worker appeared.

“We’re moving you,” they said.

I thought — finally. I thought I’d done it. My plan had worked.

But I was wrong.

What I got… was worse.

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←Part Two – The Holiday That Never Ended

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→Part Four – The New Foster Home

Part One – 150. An Early Memory I Didn’t Ask To Keep

⚠️ Content Warning: This post contains descriptions of child abuse and trauma. Please take care while reading.

One of my earliest memories is the day I was divorced from my mother.

Not quite, but almost, actually.

I couldn’t find the school sweatshirt she had bought for me. Running late for school — the youngest of four — that would be me. I’m the little pain in the backside. The mess-maker. The mistake that wasn’t meant to happen. I was the gratitude I never gave my mother for existing.

I don’t remember the actual act, but I remember everything that followed.

At school, my back was sore.

I rubbed it to try and comfort myself, and my teacher noticed I wasn’t quietly working. She asked what was wrong. I innocently replied, “My back is a bit sore.” She lifted the back of my top and let out a small gasp. I would later learn that gasp was horror.

I was taken immediately from class. No idea where I was going or what I’d done wrong. My brain decided it was punishment. I must’ve been naughty. Extra naughty, knowing me.

They led me to another room. Another adult appeared. Another look at my back. Hushed tones. I couldn’t hear what they whispered to each other, but I imagined them calling my mother. Maybe she would show up and explain and then everything would be okay?

She didn’t.

Instead, I was put into a car. “We’re going to see a doctor,” they said. Maybe I was sick? I sure didn’t feel sick. Just really sore.

At the doctor’s, I was told to strip to my underwear. A man I’d never met looked inquisitively over the back of my bony frame. I remember being grateful my sister had found clean knickers for me. I stood there, not knowing what to expect next. Just every so vulnerable and totally scared.

Then I heard counting.

He was counting something on my body.

The number I remember is: 150.

That was the number of bruises on my tiny body.

I later would learn that my mother had used a Henry Hoover pipe and battered me with it, I was quite literally black and blue.

I’d be an adult when I’d discover that that day, I became an instant urban legend. The kid who was there one minute and the next?

Just, Gone.

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→Continue to Part Two – The Holiday That Never Ended