I Survived

 

I Survived

I was raised by a woman

who lost a womb at 27—

old school ripped away, no HRT,

left in full menopause for her penance.

Stapled together.

To an abusive husband.

She had four babies, connotatively, starting at 18

from an alcoholic mother and abusive father—

they divorced in 1953.

Alcoholism on both sides.

The oldest of eight put her on the path of motherhood.

She had a wicked stepmother for a few years

before the knight in shining armour—

my father—came along.

The wolf in sheep’s clothing.

From the frying pan to the inferno.

Divorced to break the chain.

1980s: to be fucked by a system

that worked for working men,

not women left holding the babies.

No schemes for childcare,

low to no benefit, and alone.

She married the neighbour three doors down—

the nice man, a “spinster” (no word for a man!).

He cared for his mother.

Groomed me for my possible family.

Turned out to be the gambling man.

Two down.

Then the boyfriends—as you can imagine,

bastards’ paradise.

My mum, ever more abused, never winning.

Age 8, 9, and 10—I’m Mum on the weekends.

Our dad on call-out.

Guess who was left in charge?

So I refused to go.

I stayed home,

but got in the way of the then-boyfriends.

My time spent trying to mirror grown-ups,

to be what I needed to be,

fearing for my brothers.

No dolls for me.

By now I had learnt a lot of life lessons

for pink and blue,

but nothing educational.

Aged 10 or 11, we struck lucky with Paul—

husband number three.

Finally, some compassion and empathy.

He showed not all men were bad.

Mutual trust we had.

All good things don’t last,

but he showed me the best path,

and for that, I am glad.

Many words I heard:

Difficult. Emotional. Hard work.

Selfish. Aggressive.

It was a constant hum.

Luckily, I was undiagnosed on the spectrum,

so it seemed not much damage was done.

I survived.