SEVEN
Written 24th October 2024
My earliest memories are of being forced to clean. My sister and I, upstairs in our room on tenterhooks as we listened out for the sound of the tiny gold bell tinkling on our mothers charm bracelet as she plodded upstairs to shout at us about not cleaning what was already clean, for the possibility of a single speck of dust on the highest shelf in our bedroom - outlandishly, outrageously - somehow being overlooked.
We’d quietly read, walking around at intervals to make it seem we were tidying the invisible mess that we were meant to be attending to day in and day out, always tense, always listening out, always on guard.
We had a chore list that would have rivalled Cinderella’s. My poor sister got the worst of it. My stomach still clenches at the memory of hearing my mother berate her, call her names; fat cow being one of her favourites, as I stood helplessly upstairs unable to make it stop. 9 year old girls sometimes miss spots when they wash dishes; couldn’t my mother understand that?
My singular early memory I have is of playing with my Pocahontas doll and being told off for making mess with my toys to such an extreme extent that the memory has stuck fast in my head. Pocohuntas came out in 1995. I couldn’t have been older than 4, yet my mother’s rage was so profound that I recall that moment as a standout in my young life.
My childhood memories in general are spotty. Sometimes looking at old photographs, I can’t believe I don’t remember the presence of my Dad (who was indeed very present, despite what Mother would have us believe). We were raised with constant ranting and raving about our Dad not wanting us, not wanting to spend time with us, the general idea that we were rejected by him. All of which I’ve grown to learn was never true. The greatest evidence of this is that from about aged 7 onwards we spent every other weekend with him. I screamed and cried as we travelled to his house as who’d want to spend time with someone they believed to not love them? Despite my Dads patience as I wailed the whole way, despite him taking interest in my interests to show me he could see me, despite playing Metal Gear Solid in the room with us until we fell asleep at night as I was scared of the dark and my sister was scared of birds (a hitchcockian fear), I somehow couldn’t see his love.
Mother would dress us in our worst clothes for our weekends with him; trousers too short, trainers to small, to manipulate my Dad into spending his hard earned money on new clothes for us. He never fell for it, he paid a large amount of child support that I sometimes had to collect from him in cash, but upon returning home after each visit my Mother used this resistance of her schemes to proclaim to us further his lack of love for us. I believed it.
She disallowed my (loving, caring) stepmother closeness with us. Hell would have been raised had she touched our purposely messy heads of hair, fostering another belief within my sister and I; she didn’t like us or want us around either.
There are others she kept us from that are too heartbreaking and to great of a loss for me to even tolerate thinking, let alone writing, about right now. Though I thank my Dad for doing what he did; what was right - allowing us to bask in the love of my grandmother, his mother, despite my mother’s vindictive attempts to thwart such a thing. My grandmother sadly died when I was 11, on my mother’s birthday. I don’t know what that means karmically, but thank you Nana J for allowing me to remember you on that day instead of her. Thank you for being you, for the DNA I have of yours that makes up parts of who I am. That overrides some of the DNA that comes down my maternal line. Thank God for you.
Despite the darkness, there was pure light in my life of this period though; the sweetest baby brother borne of my stepmother and my dad, and the feeling of shared experience that my sister brought. Both of us would have lost our minds if there weren’t two of us to. There’d be no one that knew, that understood, that could wrap their minds around the absolute madness we lived in. I didn’t see it very clearly until I was older, although I felt it, and my sister sadly is still entrapped in my mother’s web of lies and distortions. My little brother is still the same; caring, smiling, happy. My two younger sisters that followed further bonding me to a familial connection that keeps me grounded and sane even when we are apart. Thank God for them too.
I was luckily to be loved loudly and proudly by other family members; precious aunts and uncles, family friends, teachers, neighbours. All who have done more for me than they’ll ever know. Being my mothers favoured child for the first 30 years of my life sheltered me from some of her abuse but opened me up others. The way she treated my sister still brings tears of sadness and anger to my eyes now. But I suffered in my own way, and my sister in her way too.
Whilst we may not be in contact, I know my sister is simply (and sadly) just a product of the poisonous woman who raised her. I always hope her true self will ovverrride that one day. She deserves a life and she hasn’t had one yet as my mother lives deeply burrowed in her psyche, a parasite that needs to be removed. (Edit on 21/10/20225 - fuck her.)
My upbringing, the secret hell of my household, the boundless cruelty of my mother - who at times was also funny and helpful - is a complex matter filled with confusion and conflict. I am now free from her and ready to look back at it. She has dealt her last blow, played her final card, a wicked and evil one that I expected but that somehow exceeded those expectations, and she won’t ever have the chance again.
I’m free. (Edit on 21/10/2025 - oh how wrong I was!)
Finally.
And my mother remains an idiot from hell.
SIX
Written 5th December 2024
I’ve always known id be happier once my mum was dead. I knew being away, she’d still pursue me. I just want her to feel perish in her sleep because im not looking for revenge I’m looking for peace and freedom. I don’t have that while she’s still walking and talking. Actually once she’s older and can’t really get around that’ll be fine. So let’s hope her hip is like broken or something and she really can’t dance again like she was dramatically pronouncing as a possibility months ago (that she made seem was an actuality because she’s a dumb bitch who won’t eat more than grass and chickpeas and snacks,snacks,snacks yet is still fat and hates herself for being fat but won’t stop being fat even though she knows what to do and has done it before) (I wonder if she’s even considered it’s her evil nature that she tries to surpress that makes her fat? We do eat our feelings, I know that personally. I think she eats her rage towards herself. She loathes herself but for the wrong reasons. The inside is the problem not the outside you obese cunt).
I have my own rage that I’ve eaten. It’s my rage towards life. Being alive. Being alive in her presence. Mad as fuck that she’s my “mother”. I still believe it was an error. I bet she stole me, the devilish witch. I am rageful now because it took so long to be free and I’m not receiving the support for this absolutely traumatic situation but I’m at least mostly free from that whore.
It’s so funny; you have a husband, you’re still fucking my dad and you have two other boyfriends yet you genuinely were upset and horrified when you were exposed as a cheater and took that rage out on your now husbands kids. Teens. You used Krystal’s toothbrush to clean the dirty toilet. You should and will burn in hell.
Why do you hate yourself so much? You’ve told me about when you were younger and felt fat - but you weren’t. Your self loathing is so innate. Why did you continue to go to the barbershop after the au pairs white self felt that was the only right solution on ONE OCCASION? It was an error of judgement in the 60’s and that dumb bitch was white! You carried on until your late teens! You did it to yourself! Why?!
You got mad at the Grand High when she told the story about when Stephan (you wait until I get into that psychopath) was born and you were so jealous you put her in the washing machine. The grand high laughed but you were so upset. Is it because it exposes your innate nature? Why are you this way? I don’t care, but for the sake of your soul maybe find out. Both of your kids hate you! Get a clue.
You never learn: not even after you couldn’t go on the cycling trip because your devil nature was exposed and you were disallowed. You’ve just gotten angrier and angrier and I hope your heart fails because of it so we can all get a break. You’re a cancer to this earth. And Errol should have died of cancer. It’s a tragedy he didn’t. I was so fucking excited.
Five
Written 25/01/2025 13.59pm
Because of the innate sense of humour I was sadly born with, its not as clear as I’d like to be that I am rage personified; fury in human in form. I am ferocious, I am furious, I am hateful, I am so fucking angry.
I was a disagreeable child and I am a disagreeable woman. Disagreeable in its commonly know sense but also - I must highlight - I did not agree to be on this earth. I did not give my consent. In fact, I’m sure I would have aborted myself had I had the chance. I have been protesting against my existence with every ounce of my being since day one and I’m still fucking here. I DONT WANT TO BE!
The word that feels most natural for me to speak is NO. NO NO NO NO NO NO. Fuck off.
I hate my mother, I despise my father, I want to spit on both of their graves but they aren’t fucking dead yet. I want to smash my head into every wall within a 10 mile radius.
I do not like life. I do not want it.
This is a reflection of an absolute hatred of my parents. I want to cough up venom and throw it in their faces. I hope to be the mirror that shows them how disgusting they are. I am a reflection of them, I hate them so much I wish I wasnt born. They are failures. I want them to know that. Nothing, no other “achievement” covers this one up. I want them to see me and flinch, I want them to want to feel a desperate urge to avert their gaze because to look directly at me is it to look at the revolting content of their souls. Dont look away motherfuckers. I HATE you. I have screamed it, I have said it, I have run as far from you as I can but still you pursue me. So here it is, take a look. You’d wish you’d just left me alone. This shit is ugly and you two losers can’t handle it. Let’s hope it destroys you, I pray for failure of whatever organ sits where your hearts should be. Only then will I ever know peace.
FOUR
9th November 2024
Andrew O said that if he could go back and tell his younger self something - essentially at the beginning of his career - he said he would have broken up with girlfriend earlier. The question stumped him and he said he liked it, he found it interesting that I’d asked, so it took him a while to think of something. The first thing he said was about the girlfriend, then he thought more, then said yeah - the girlfriend.
It’s so interesting to me that a man, who isn’t without hardships in his lifetime, felt that was the most important thing he would change.
As much as I know my Dad doesn’t wish my elder sister and I away [edit on 6th January at 1.33pm - I may have been insane when I wrote that, he definitely wishes us away, and I sure do wish him away. I wish him to his homeland - hell. Burning and screaming in agony. Forever!), I am sure he wishes he never met my mum, got engaged to her or procreated with her.
So many men recently, including Tommy, have emphasised my need for a partner. I get it. I want one and I think that my struggle would be lessened with one. But if it were the wrong one… well, fuck. So I understand what they’re saying to me, and I agree because humans are social animals, I want to be close to someone, to have MY person that knows me and I know them, and human touch is so important, cuddles are important, sex is important, but I can’t afford to fuck up at a time like this with the wrong person.
Four men I have met in the last year have lasting repercussions - from broken hearts, to trust issues, to low self-esteem, to financial destitution, to attempts at suicide - due to choosing the wrong partner.
Another is heading down that road like a fool, and another is trying to get the fuck away from his poor choice while she disappears for weeks at a time, not even contacting their two small children.
I’ve always known women’s struggles, but I can’t believe how broken these men become as a result. It’s devastating. Now I get some men’s wariness because I actually think they’re affected more than women, then they become closed off and no good as they don't trust any woman, especially if they love her! The more they love, the further away they wanna be afterwards. I can’t say I blame them.
I’d deeply regret if Callum saw me in that light, but I sadly know he does. I think Daniel does too. Neither of these were hurt by me intentionally. But they have still been hurt. That makes me sad.
The latter two mentioned will bounce back. The others…. Not so much.
THREE
29th December 2024 at 1.42am
I hope Frankie has gone. I really do, so that this is all done. Theres only so much one person can take. I hope he goes back with his family and his fiancé and life slaps him in the face and there’s no way back. Not that I wish him pain, but just reality. And knowledge - that you don’t get to reverse time. I want this to be over but I also want it to have been so different. I wish he didn’t lie to me. I want this to be over. I wish it had never happened. I wish I knew why.
And I wish I could figure out how to display the whole fucking photo at the top of the post.
TWO
This entire thing is going to be an incoherent mess because realistically - even though I’d like to - I’m not going back and attempting to post every entry in chronological order. Some things are from notes apps on different devices, some are from physical journals - the best I can do is write the date of the entry at the top of the post.
This shit is going to be chaotic - the perfect personification of my life, I guess.
I will do my best to spellcheck though, but no promises. I’m not Professor McGonagall, pal (or Hermione. She sickens me so much I didn’t even want to type her name, but she’s is the annoying little rat who’d spellcheck her own arsehole, so best to express that thought since I thought it anyway).
The date of this post is now. Today. Right now. (This clarification is for the nerds. The Hermiones out there - everywhere - nowadays on the internet).
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