Standing outside my mother's flat, I waited with a sinking heart to see if she would answer the door. Less than twenty-four hours earlier, I had fled from her and from that place – a house that felt as much like a home to me as a prison cell feels to an inmate. Yet here I was, back again, though not through any choice of my own. As a technical minor at the time, when my aunt refused to take me in, the police had little option but to return me to this so-called 'home'. To my immense relief, nobody was inside. 'Well, I'm going then,' I declared to the police officer, and before he could muster a response, I turned and left as swiftly as my legs could carry me. That pivotal moment occurred over three decades ago, and I have never returned to my 'family' since. Even though most of them are still alive today, I consider myself an orphan because that reality is infinitely preferable to the alternative – going back to that profoundly toxic and abusive environment.
Degrees of Separation
This series aims to provide a nuanced exploration of familial estrangement. Estrangement is not a uniform experience; it varies dramatically from person to person. We seek to amplify the voices of those who have lived through it themselves. If you have personally experienced estrangement and wish to share your story, you can contact us.
The Abuse Began Early
The abuse commenced almost immediately in my childhood, though I lacked any real comprehension of it until I was a toddler. My mother oscillated between being coldly absent and unleashing savage physical beatings. The only respite I ever experienced was during my father's visits. He would play a silly game, placing a candle under his chin and pulling funny faces. In those fleeting moments, I could almost feel like a normal child. Tragically, these visits were never long enough, as Dad lived elsewhere. When he died during my eighth year, that small pocket of safety vanished forever.
I still vividly recall my mother delivering the news. Sitting on our living room floor with a bowl of porridge, she entered holding a letter and stated bluntly: 'Your father's dead.' She then sent me off to school as if nothing of significance had occurred. I spent that entire day physically sick with grief and paralysing fear. Unsurprisingly, the constant violence escalated thereafter. My mother would whip the backs of my legs with a plastic belt until I bled. On other occasions, she inflicted broken bones and even fractured my skull.
A New Form of Torment
As I entered my teenage years, the abuse took a sexual turn. She refused to allow me to bathe myself, using the opportunity to touch me in ways no parent ever should. I would freeze, mentally transporting myself to other places or immersing myself in stories like The Chronicles of Narnia. I now understand this as dissociation, a common coping mechanism among survivors of childhood sexual abuse.
Manufactured Excuses for Cruelty
What made it even more insidious was how she would stage scenarios to manufacture excuses for abuse. It could be something as trivial as hiding packets of biscuits, then demanding to know why I had eaten them. When I truthfully denied it, I was beaten for lying. Then, when I inevitably 'confessed' just to end the beating, I was beaten again for not telling the truth initially. Essentially, it did not matter what I did or said; she was determined to hurt me one way or another.
I had privately vowed that if she hadn't killed me by my sixteenth birthday, I would run away. And that is precisely what I did.
Finding No Sanctuary
I eventually left with just two possessions for my new life: a white blazer and my GCSE art portfolio. I wanted nothing else – no clothes, no teddy bear, not even a toothbrush – as everything felt tainted by its connection to her. I headed to my aunt's home, believing that as her sole surviving blood relative, she would be happy to see me and offer sanctuary. Her disinterest was profound; she wouldn't even come to the police station. That rejection is how I ended up back at my mother's flat, leading to my second escape within twenty-four hours.
The Struggle to Survive Alone
From that point onward, I had to fight relentlessly for everything. This was followed by a house share where male tenants coerced me and the other female tenant into providing sexual favours in exchange for a bed at night. Unfortunately, I also found myself trapped in an abusive relationship throughout my late teens and mid-twenties. I had two children during that time, and my focus shifted entirely to protecting them from their father's abuse. As far as I was concerned, my children and I were alone in the world, and I could rely only on myself to navigate us through.
Building a New Life
Thankfully, I always found a way. I obtained a university degree, followed by a Master's, and a professional qualification in interior design. My abusive ex now has only occasional contact with my now-grown children, so his behaviour is less of a pressing concern.
The Lingering Grief
Would I still give anything for a loving mother, a supportive family to lean on, or a network of aunts, uncles, and cousins that makes me feel I truly belong? Absolutely. If you have a family that genuinely cares, consider yourself fortunate. I have finally built my own family with my children and the cherished friends I've made along life's difficult path. Yet, there will always be a part of me that grieves for what I missed. There will always be a part that feels like that abused and abandoned child, running from the place I should have been able to call home, knowing I had no choice but to face the world alone.
