I grew up with an abusive mother who was severely bipolar and depressed. My father didn't want to know me so I only lived with my mum. She'd hoard rubbish like empty cans, crisp wrappers, etc. and this gradually got worse to when the rubbish would be pilled up to the ceiling and my bedroom would be filled with rubbish bags that she'd never throw away. I was never allowed to sleep in my own bedroom or get dressed in another room, I always had to sleep in hers, even when I was 13 and when I told her that I wanted my own room I would be verbally abused. At first, when she was having an episode, she'd drive me somewhere and then chuck me out of the car and lock it and threaten to drive away. She'd lock me upstairs when she had her friends over and scream at me if I ever wanted to come down. Things just got worse. She would hit me, throw knives at me, pull my hair and say things like "I wish you were never born" and would even tell me that she was giving me to my father, even though he doesn't want me. She would never cook me food, I'd only have crisps or chocolate while she had takeaways. I used to be so hungry so sometimes I would take food upstairs to eat it without her knowing. Once I took a small Easter egg because I didn't eat the whole day and when she found out she started shouting, if I didn't answer her she'd have another go at me, and when I did reply she told me to shut up and put her hands over my mouth and dug her nails into my face. When she noticed she had taken away a chunk of my skin she said I deserved it, 10 seconds later she pulled over and phoned my grandmother saying I done it with a hairbrush.
My grandmother knew the truth and she knew what my mother was doing to me (and herself) but she never did anything, she'd often take sides with her. I took a picture of our house and showed her. My mother disowned me and threw me out of the house. I tried everything I could to get her help but she denied that there was anything wrong. She went to the doctors and things started to get better and I moved back in. I did everything I could to look after her but she stopped taking her anti-depressants and things spiraled. I was too scared to say anything. One night she tried to lock me in our living room, I tried to get out by stepping over her but accidentally kicked her eye, she chucked me out of the house at night. She then found me and took me home where she tried to strangle me. Within minutes she had forgotten what she had done. I told her I couldn't cope with this anymore. She kicked me out again and said she never wanted me back. I never saw her again. I had it all planned out in my head how I was going to come home from school a few days later and give her a big hug but instead, I come home to the news that she was dead. The tests came back inconclusive. I still don't know how she died but from reading things it's likely that it's related to the mental health condition that caused her hoarding.
After she died I went to live with my grandparents - I had always lived with them. I quite literally went from one extreme to the other, one life to the other. I had always promised myself that I would never let any of this hold me back and I haven't in a lot of ways. I had all A's at A-Level and unis wanted to pay me to go there and I'm now studying to become an interpreter. You would never know I had been through all of this. Of course, I am proud of myself. But sometimes, particularly when I think about it all, I question how I am able to do it because really I shouldn't be able to. Sometimes I feel guilty for now being happy. It feels as if I should be - shouldn't this be affecting every aspect of my life? More recently I have had to come to terms with it all. For years I thought that if I didn't think about it I would be fine. As much as I don't want it to affect me, it has affected me subconsciously. Over the last few years, I noticed that I couldn't really remember what happened. I knew that it happened but I couldn't remember it and the parts I could remember I felt no emotion and I suffered from emotional flashbacks. A few months ago, my memory gradually came back after encountering two triggers in a short period of time. I could hardly do anything for 2 weeks and began to suffer visual flashbacks. After seeing the doctor I am now waiting for treatment but I feel better than I ever have. Better than I was even before my memory came back. I am determined to begin to move on with my life. I realised the other day that I still have about half of her ashes. I asked to keep some because they would be the only thing I have. I don't have photos, except ones from when I was quite young, and obviously very few good memories. I never wanted to scatter them, I was always going to keep them but now I've started to consider it. Thinking about it makes me feel 'free' - if that makes sense? Like she's finally gone. It's over and I'm safe. The last part of her is gone. Like my control is back. I was going to do in the places she used to take me when she was in a good place. This wouldn't be me venting my anger. Is this a good idea? There's lots of stuff out there about scattering ashes, but very little in this context.
My grandmother knew the truth and she knew what my mother was doing to me (and herself) but she never did anything, she'd often take sides with her. I took a picture of our house and showed her. My mother disowned me and threw me out of the house. I tried everything I could to get her help but she denied that there was anything wrong. She went to the doctors and things started to get better and I moved back in. I did everything I could to look after her but she stopped taking her anti-depressants and things spiraled. I was too scared to say anything. One night she tried to lock me in our living room, I tried to get out by stepping over her but accidentally kicked her eye, she chucked me out of the house at night. She then found me and took me home where she tried to strangle me. Within minutes she had forgotten what she had done. I told her I couldn't cope with this anymore. She kicked me out again and said she never wanted me back. I never saw her again. I had it all planned out in my head how I was going to come home from school a few days later and give her a big hug but instead, I come home to the news that she was dead. The tests came back inconclusive. I still don't know how she died but from reading things it's likely that it's related to the mental health condition that caused her hoarding.
After she died I went to live with my grandparents - I had always lived with them. I quite literally went from one extreme to the other, one life to the other. I had always promised myself that I would never let any of this hold me back and I haven't in a lot of ways. I had all A's at A-Level and unis wanted to pay me to go there and I'm now studying to become an interpreter. You would never know I had been through all of this. Of course, I am proud of myself. But sometimes, particularly when I think about it all, I question how I am able to do it because really I shouldn't be able to. Sometimes I feel guilty for now being happy. It feels as if I should be - shouldn't this be affecting every aspect of my life? More recently I have had to come to terms with it all. For years I thought that if I didn't think about it I would be fine. As much as I don't want it to affect me, it has affected me subconsciously. Over the last few years, I noticed that I couldn't really remember what happened. I knew that it happened but I couldn't remember it and the parts I could remember I felt no emotion and I suffered from emotional flashbacks. A few months ago, my memory gradually came back after encountering two triggers in a short period of time. I could hardly do anything for 2 weeks and began to suffer visual flashbacks. After seeing the doctor I am now waiting for treatment but I feel better than I ever have. Better than I was even before my memory came back. I am determined to begin to move on with my life. I realised the other day that I still have about half of her ashes. I asked to keep some because they would be the only thing I have. I don't have photos, except ones from when I was quite young, and obviously very few good memories. I never wanted to scatter them, I was always going to keep them but now I've started to consider it. Thinking about it makes me feel 'free' - if that makes sense? Like she's finally gone. It's over and I'm safe. The last part of her is gone. Like my control is back. I was going to do in the places she used to take me when she was in a good place. This wouldn't be me venting my anger. Is this a good idea? There's lots of stuff out there about scattering ashes, but very little in this context.
