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Monday morning. Well, looks like it’s going to be one of those days. Chemists first, then the auction rooms to pick up the Metal Monkey’s car. Pity about the box though. When we got it, the box was destroyed – it had become home to a few families of earwigs and yukky bug eggs. But the car itself was pristine. The box would’ve trebled its value, but now it sits happily among my Davros, Beavis & Butthead stuff. My sorta man cave. Many PCs from many ages. So much stuff. So much I’ve collected.
I’ve thrown out mostly all my old things. I had clothes older than my children and grandchildren. I don’t do “style” as such. I’ve had the beard and long hair for years. Last time I had even a slight trim was 20 years ago. Now my hair is falling out, the beard is thinning. That sucks. But such is life.
Went to the chemists today and the Machine of Death was working well. It did make funny sounds but did its job for a change.
Last night I was deep in thought about my mother. About not being told about her funeral. I get the impression they didn’t want me there. It’s a long story. I’m probably to blame. But when you’re suffering chronic cognitive issues, it’s fucking hard.
My sister never told me. No details. Nothing. I looked in the obits. Nothing. So they just didn’t want me to say one last goodbye.
They didn’t speak to me for over 14 years. I was cut off completely. Like I never existed.
I’m adopted. The cuckoo in the nest. I get that.
Everywhere I went, they blamed me for everything. Another family secret buried deep – I found out I had an older sister who was also adopted. They only really wanted to know her. But she was so fucked up she didn’t want to meet our mother. She was very angry about it all.
And all those lies my mother told about my father – saying he was dead, getting his family to lie too. More and more lies. Until one day I found out everything. One day I will write it all down, for all to see. How an adopted person was treated like a piece of crap by the family who put him up for adoption, and the family who adopted him.
They treated me like a slave. Constant beatings and head games.
You ever been told at six years old that you were naughty for accidentally breaking a plate – and then have your mother go berserk? She was Welsh, not that tall, but violent, and she knew how to work people. She screamed at me:
“You’re adopted. Go find your real mother.”
That broke me.
So I went to my bedroom, packed a little bag with my teddy, and walked away. I walked to the road with my bag and teddy bear, thinking I’d never come back. No one came looking for me. I hid until dark, then went back home.
And when I finally found my real mother years later, she called me:
“A little shit.”
Like I was nothing. Like I never mattered to anyone.
The people who were supposed to nurture me… didn’t. They would have been better with a dog than with a child.
I know what beatings are like. What it’s like to be kept in, not allowed out, because of the bruises and cuts I had accumulated. No one listened. No one helped me. I was alone and fucking hurting.
I remember those nights, crying myself to sleep in pain. Feeling so out of it, so different. No matter what I did, it was wrong.
I was adopted in 1959 at six weeks old to a Christian family through a Church of England adoption society. The vicar I spoke with about my issues was a cunt. He told my parents confidential stuff, and I got a trashing for it.
No one ever listened. Who would take the word of a poor waif and stray child? The vicar? No. The school? No. Anyone? No.
So yeah. Around about 10-ish, I started getting early MS symptoms. They plagued me, and the doctors and NHS gaslit me for decades.
I hate my life.
“The views in this post are based on my personal
experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”
“By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
By storm and silence, I survive.”
@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk
