So, I’ve been working on my autobiography (about my childhood in foster care) and writing my 2nd chapter. I’ve decided to share this chapter on my blog to give an incite into what my book will be like. I’m also hoping for constructive feedback and signposting to Editors and Publishers for when the book is finished.
You might be wondering what is home or more like where is home? If I’m completely honest I’ve never really known but my birth home was a small bungalow in Leeds not far from Leeds and Bradford airport and a beautiful park called Golden Acre. It was an old bungalow with a distinct smell of wet damp that left your clothes smelling like they had your grandmother’s cheap powdery perfume on. Silver fish (a wiggly transparent insect) co-habituated regularly with myself and my mother . Realistically the council estate in which the bungalow was situated on should have been knocked down years ago. Anyhow I was eighteen months old when I started living there-but memories didn’t begin until I was around 3.
One of my first memories was of my mother and step father Ian. I was sat in my pushchair near some steps with the rain cover down as it was a typically dark, grey British day. I recall loud mumbling and feeling alone. This was a feeling I was going to befriend for the rest of my childhood.
Ian was a dark haired man with a very troubled mind. If I am completely truthful mother married him out of pity and because he was an old family friend. Their relationship was volatile, noisy and brash. I was parented by him in a way I never liked. Being only 3 when they married I didn’t know my biological father and to me he was, what I thought, was normal. Being a parent myself now I know that locking a child in a bedroom and having them cry themselves to sleep at the door for hours on end is not nice or normal. I was frequently locked away, cars were another cage to me. Outside pubs and friends houses if I’d had a tantrum over something. I won’t of been the first infant to have experienced that nor the last but the effects of ‘caging’ as I named it, left me with some mild claustrophobia. Alongside the panicky tight, hot fluster feelings associated with that, came the sense of needing to rebel from being trapped by anyone or anything that has ever tried to ‘cage me’ again.
Sadly mum found herself in a cage not long after marrying Ian. Mental and physical cruelty was the final ‘divorce petition’ which meant that by the time I was 5 we were just back to the two of us.
Mother was and still is caring, she has a very loving aura about her. Despite her good intentions her own inner turmoil’s and inability to understand ‘normal functional relationships’ makes my mother intensely vulnerably and erratic.
I remember us playing a lot, horse riding, swimming, tennis and walks. Much like the films ‘Matilda’ when Miss Honey adopts Matilda and they spend all summer playing. Mother was becoming my best friend and not my parent. By age 6 the boundaries had filtered away and the roles had reversed. I had begun to look after her.
I remember my award winning tantrums for things I wanted. The power of a tantrum is that of a superhuman force. A tantrum can turn any sane mind into a puddle of cold custard within seconds. Mother never disciplined or explained things to me, like a swing ball she’d be calm and caring but an hour later a venomous snake hissing and tormenting me verbally with her fangs.
“Your a mistake a manipulative child that never listens”
They were her kinder venomous bites.
Persistence was the key, if I had a tantrum for long enough for another (puppy, cat, rabbit or pair of shoes or toy) after watching 101 Dalmatians and wanting to recreate the film. She would take me to a place called ‘Living World’ in Armley and buy me what I wanted.
5 dogs, 2 rabbits, no carpets, barely any food in the cupboards, half ripped clothes and a short haired anxious child was what was created a year later. The sad thing was that when she bought me things I felt important and wanted. I needed reassurance that I was wanted and I craved her undivided attention. The best way to feel that was to natter. I new the nattering wasn’t going to work forever when she was declined for trying to purchase me a gigantic cream teddy in M&S that was near on £200.
It was not long after that, that I’d realised mother’s friends had all disappeared and that her and grandma used to have large shouting matches. Our car kept getting uglier and smaller. My primary school was in Bramhope but I couldn’t go often because the car was unwell. After a while I moved to a closer school but I didn’t like it. Nor did I enjoy walking the 45 minute walk to school it made me tired and achy. I felt guilty going to school mainly because it meant mother would be on her own with no friends. When I got worried about all these things my tummy would ache and shake much like those vibrating balls with spikes on that you could get from Toys R us. It used to make me feel sick but I could never be sick, as an adult the closest comparison I have to the worrying feeling is that shock you feel after a car crash. Mother would let me stay off school if I complained about it enough. I liked that, I liked that she believed me as know one else did. Understandably having so many fractured weeks at school meant friendship groups were tough to maintain and I became more avoidant in attending school and the more this happened the more I would ‘play up’.
It must of been spring of 1996 as I don’t recall rain and it would be the 1st day that I was removed from my mothers care. Leading up to this day I can remember some odd knocks at the door and perculiure people asking mother a lot of questions about me. These questions made her act funny and shout. I vaguely remember been put in a car and the doors were immediately locked- caged again! Frightened I’d feel instant aching again as this was a cage I’d never felt or smelt before. The social workers had said I was going to a new home for a while until mum got better. I’d stare at their cold, pale, emotionally withdrawn faces wondering how on earth it could be ‘home’ if I had no clue where I was going? Social workers are strict and stern and I didn’t like strict, it felt different and gave me tummy ache again.
The new house was in Horsforth near a train station. I new it wasn’t far from mums but I couldn’t fathom how to unlock the cage and get back. When you arrive at these houses they call “foster carers” it always seems very strange. It’s just not the norm to walk into a stranger’s house, sit on their sofa and not say anything. What must they think of me? Turning up like a random fluffy haired, shaking, skinny child with tattered clothes and confused hazel eyes beaming around the room at everything trying to figure out why I’m here. I wanted desperately to call mother but I don’t know where anything is. I need the toilet but I’m to scared to ask where it is. I feel alone again but I’m used to that feeling so I swallowed the knot in my throat and blink the reservoir of water behind my eyes away until the ‘foster carer? ‘would ask me “would you like a drink Francesca?”.
I’d just nod my head and try to look OK but I wasn’t even sure what OK was. My time there wasn’t overly long- the brain is a fascinating organ. It protects itself by forgetting things that could be to traumatising to deal with emotionally.
Lots of meetings took place with people called ‘Guardians’ and ‘Play Therapists’ but non of them seemed to understand me or how I felt. It all become extremely frustrating, much like when your learning to tie shoe laces or ride a bike. No matter how much I persevere and tell them how I missed my mum they wouldn’t let me see her. It was supervised phone calls or when I eventually did see her it was in big council buildings with an erey atmosphere and plain psychiatric ward like rooms. Someone would always be in the corner of the room sat taking notes and this was for the whole measly hour of contact.
Contact was the worst, seeing someone you have missed so deeply for 14 sleeps and then being told ” Your time is up” and it’s “time for goodbyes”. No amount of cuddles or kisses or squeezes make the re- separation any easier. It’s like a part of your soul crumbles away like that of an eroded cliff into the sea. Your emotions crash into a wave in the sea and leave you bobbing about in cold, blue numbness. The escort taxi back to the ‘new home’ is always long, silent and tastes like the mini sick after burp when you’ve eaten too much. Undoubtedly the shaky tummy creeps back in and will stay with you for the rest of the day and evening.
Is it any wonder that a child in that situation going through those emotional experiences weekly will struggle to emotionally function as an adult? These memories may be locked away by the brain over time but the body remembers the stress forever. Around six weeks or months later (again the brain forgets) I was rehabilitated back to mum and we continued our quest to be a ‘normal one parent family’.
The bungalow had changed , furniture was cleaner and we had new carpets! Second hand carpets that had funny designs on, I thought they looked a bit like circus decorations, I’d been there once and liked it, the bungalow now felt like a palace! I liked school a little bit now, even had some friends. Mother seemed a tad calmer and less shouty and she was more comfortable with walking me to school. My guilt was still there but it was a small enough ‘shake’ to ignore it. We frequently went out on day trips to Scarborough and horse riding again, I had missed these whilst in that Horsforth house. I spent a lot of the next few months learning to horse ride at a stables near Otley and it was mum who taught me as she was good at things like that. For a while I can say I liked my life. She had a few strange men but I didn’t pay much attention personally, all I know is I felt jealous of them taking my play time away from me. I played with mum who else did I have to play with?
The only time the bad tummy ache returned was when we saw Grandma, Uncle Mark or Great Grandma (Green Gran). They would all argue a lot and blame me for most things. The same stories were played out over and over again. I’d sit on the sofa absorbing the shouty vulgar words like a song on repeat seeping into my subconscious. I’d day dream about shouting back at them with what I really wanted to say and I’d replay my escape route of how I’d run away from all their nasty words. Then bang, the tummy ache would return and put my body into paralysis. I felt like I’d been buried alive sometimes like I couldn’t breath and my tiny spindly frame was heavy. I could hear everything but know one could hear me shouting for help. Repeatedly I’d ask why is it my fault – in my head of course. Why did know one want me? Even when I was in mothers tummy know one wanted me. The first broken record I remember was that when mum was pregnant my Grandfather was angry. He told her she had a ‘nigger’ inside of her. I didn’t know what a ‘nigger’ was but clearly I was one, as know one ever told me I wasn’t. The comment from Grandfather made Uncle Mark extremely angry and instead of him hitting his father he punched the double glazed window. Mother had to wrap a tie around his wrist and save his life whilst an ambulance arrived. This meant Uncle Marks hand was poorly forever and he couldn’t work as a sheet metal worker anymore. I had broken his nerves and veins . I had caused an argument and I hadn’t even been born yet. What a bad nigger I was…I’d sit thinking on the sofa.
This is when I first began to wonder who my father was. Who was my birth father and why was Grandfather so angry at me? My nattering started to unravel again and mum was quite receptive. She openly answered my inquisitive questions – often a little too honest. Children require softer explanations sometimes with diluted content from explicit details. This is not what I got nor what mother could rationalise. She never tarnished my biological father- well not at first. She described him as a tall, brown attractive male called Michael Mardell. At around 7 years old she gifted me one photo of my father and I liked the look of him but he was brown and I wasn’t, it confused me greatly. Consequently more questions erupted like an eager, hungry, house cat after a goldfish. On a good day mother would talk about dancing with him in night clubs in Leeds called Mr Craig’s and Majestics . How he courted her and seduced her persistently. On a bad day she’d describe him as a player and how he “fucked her like a whore” and denied I was his. Then left her for his other woman. I didn’t know what ‘fucking’ was so my questions continued. Shortly after she educated me on sexual intercourse and how babies were created.
I couldn’t wait to tell my friends at school the next day! Understandably my teachers were not so best pleased about my playground stories and I got mother into a considerable amount of trouble. Again it was my fault, I was manipulative and a child that would not take NO for an answer when it came to questions. I didn’t like school anymore after that day.
The records continued into an album, Granddad’s affair, beating Grandma up and the loss of the family home in Adele. Mother’s unhappy childhood and the bullying she endured. Uncle Mark’s drug taking and alcoholism. Grandma’s Reiki healing, mothers broken arm from Grandma yanking her out of the bedroom wardrobe when she played hide and seek. The families financial battles and bitterness over everything especially Green Gran’s first stroke been because of her sheer embarrassment of me being placed in foster care. I loved them all so much but non of them liked each other, I learnt that this was obviously how families showed love. Family is about shouting, slapping one another and slamming phones down. After some of the worse records I started missing school again. Every argument I listened to lead to tummy pain and mother would take me to the doctors but they could never find anything wrong. It wasn’t long before they became suspicious and started accusing mum of harming me. Further down the line she was accused of “Munchhausen syndrome” in court. The visits started again and letters began to land on the floor of the bungalow.
Social workers began to knock at the door regularly and mother didn’t always like them so she would refuse to open the door. I’d vibrate with fear, we’d often pretend we were not in and started keeping the curtains closed all the time. We never verbalised it but we both new that if we answered the phone or door they may take me to a ‘new home’ again. We hid until I was 8 years old so vaguely four months, then the hiding places ran out. This time mother fought back when the day came. She turned into a lion that day they took me. Swinging at the temporary social worker with her paws so hard she knocked her glasses off. Poor woman never did return after that swipe to her work placement. Mum’s roars were not loud enough though. I was prized away from her like chewing gum stuck to your school trousers. Flung into yet another escort car like a piece of junk your slinging onto a skip. Doors locked and sped away. Caged once more with the sea flushing through my eyes. I couldn’t see where I was going and I hated every second of it.
This ‘new home’ was further away. I’d never been to this place before and it was big, very very big. Social services had informed me that this would be a much longer placement – It ended up been 8 months.
The family were socially, emotionally and financially better off, completely different to my biological family. There rules were alien to me, mum didn’t have boundaries yet surprisingly quickly I learnt to accept them – I even kinda liked them. I’d never had siblings before and overnight I’d acquired six and the foster carer had several foster children like me as well. It seemed overwhelming, exciting and scary trying to learn about all these new people. It also felt reassuring to be part of something, what that something was I didn’t know but what I did know was that I found myself liking this family far better than the first foster placement. My school remained the same which meant daily taxis and escorts were provided- I didn’t enjoy this because everyday I was driven near mum’s house and I would replay escape routes over and over again. I had missed a tremendous amount of school again and I remember feeling embarrassed about not knowing my times tables. I had never been good at spelling and red was the primary color across my school books. Copying the kids next to me was how I coped – it was easier than asking for help.
During the summer that year my foster family were going to France on their annual summer holiday. My foster father was French so they enjoyed visiting the family home there, I’d never been abroad so the discussions around travelling seemed alien and I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Intrigued I quizzed my foster mum and soon came to the realisation that I was unable to go with them on this particular occasion. Abandonment was a new feeling, just like loneliness this was to become another close friend of mine. It was explained to me over the forthcoming weeks that I was to stay in something called ‘rest-bite care’. Rest-bite sounded peculiar to me. I didn’t need a rest and I didn’t bite people. I’d tried it once in nursery in the dressing up area when my friend got to the best costume before me. I was mortified to say the least. All of my break time had been spent hanging around the classroom door in anticipation that I would make it first in line to race to the dressing up corner. Sadly this girl in my class was a lot faster than me and had the same idea. I couldn’t control the frustration so I bit her as hard as I could after she refused to give me the costume. I got sent home that day for biting when I was 5 years old. I was now 8 and hopefully still not in trouble for that? What could ‘rest-bite’ possibly mean?
Another few weeks past and I had settled into this big stone busy household a bit more. My foster mum cooked things I’d never tasted before like ratatouille and carbonara. My bedroom was quite nice- although sharing a room with girls I didn’t know on a weekend was UN-nerving, equally frustrating, annoying and disturbing. Despite these feelings I’d actually started to even like my foster mum and siblings. She had a presence of authority but calmness about her. She didn’t shout and she called me ‘Franzipan’ or ‘Franny-Annie’. She let me ask questions- I like questions as mentioned earlier but when I asked them she’d tell me ‘it wasn’t your fault’ and that I was ‘only a child’. I’d never had things like that said to me before, I didn’t believe her- but it felt nice hearing it.
Their trip to this place called France arrived and we set off to this ‘rest-bite’ thing. I remember her telling me they were “really nice people” and it was only for a few weeks. As the car pulled up outside I realise it was another ‘new home’. Immediately anger salt drops filled my eyes. Quickly swallowing them before she opened my car door I stepped out hesitantly. I can recall steep steps going up to this house. It was a lot smaller than the big stone house and only four people lived inside. I new immediately I didn’t want to stay there. I didn’t care if they were nice and I certainly didn’t want to feel all these sensory overloads all over again. I’d just started to learn where things were, smells and rules that were in place at the big stone house. Why did I have to UN learn them all so soon? Why didn’t she want to take me to France? What had I done so wrong? Why did everyone hate me? Maybe mum was right, maybe I was a bad mistake like the unwanted lynx set at Christmas that know body wants. Or the bad trump that makes everyone evacuate a room.
My brain shut off again- it couldn’t cope. The pain was too hurtful so I became withdrawn and introvert. Everyday dragged and all I remember is a continual feeling of uneasiness whilst I lay in bed in a small box room with a sliding door that was like one off those floral fans you get on holiday. A number of days floated by and then I was reunited with my stone house. I was cross and the trust I had started to build had faded away but at least they had returned for me unlike my mum. I’d not seen her for a long time now and I missed her but I tried hard not to listen to the tummy ache drumming away inside of me about her.
Two months later I started seeing mum again in those prison like contact rooms. She’d buy me sweets and we’d just cuddle until the contact was over. Mum didn’t like me talking about the big stone house or people that lived there. She’d get defensive and cross and I would feel bad. Even though they had recently abandoned me to go to France I liked them because they were kind to me. Mum couldn’t understand this and it made me feel weighed down with a huge blanket of guilt. Guilt was to become my third best friend but I didn’t know this at this point in my childhood.
Over time mum got slightly better and contacts got more regular and I new it wouldn’t be long until I went back at the bungalow. I really wanted to go home to her but I also wanted to stay in the stone house with the busy people. I had found a sense of routine and stability there and I remember when the day came that I had to leave- I felt terribly sad. I new I was going to miss my foster mum and her cooking but I could never mention this to mum as I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Why did I have to hide all the time I didn’t like not telling the truth and letting people know I cared.
Returning to mum felt strange, I had missed her greatly but I couldn’t settle. Something always felt like it was missing. It was nice to see Grandma and uncle Mark and Tandy (Tandy was the only dog social services had allowed mum to keep). She was a brindle boxer cross with a lovely temperament. I would spend hours painting her puppy paws with nail varnish and trying to dress her in my baby born clothes.
I soon turned 9 and things were going smoothly. There was the odd strange incident like when mother changed her car and the sales man upset her one evening when he came to the bungalow. She cried all night and made me sit outside with her in the garden until the sun came up because she was too frightened to go back inside. Or the time her and Grandma had a humongous row over money for my school trip and mother dragged her out of bed and her prolapse was exposed under her nightwear. I had to telephone the police that morning on the payphone we had. We had that fitted in the kitchen because she owed BT a lot of penny’s. I felt sorry for Grandma that day but she scared me with her words. She occasionally took me me away for weekends to give mum a break but she’d do the whole family record thing again. She was such a spiritual being but yet so bitter and held so many grudges about the past. I always used to get that funny tummy ache when she got angry and talked about how her daughter and son didn’t respect or help her. Or when she would get tearful over how Granddad had betrayed her and how her prolapse was because of what her family had done to her. At 9 I didn’t understand what a prolapse was I just new it made me feel very sick when she showed me it.
For me this was my family and it was normal however this time round after spending 8 months away with the stone family I new that this wasn’t how other families behaved! This was the first time in my childhood where I realised what shame really felt like. During this weekend with Grandma she was increasingly worried about Uncle Mark. He had moved house to a really rough part of Leeds and had started drinking more alcohol. I wasn’t the least bit worried because Uncle Mark had always been kind to me. He was cool and liked music just like I did.
Just before I turned 10 years old mother met a man- I didn’t like this. I’d not been home long and already someone else was now trying to take her off me- Or that’s what how it seemed. He took us to the New Inn pub in Eccup a lot and gave me £1 coins to play on the egg machine. I loved that game because I would get a toy at the end of it if I beat the timer. I’d try anything to get his attention after I’d finished on the game. Diverting his attention from mum and having him interact with me was the only way I could stop them touching each other on the lips. Mother would giggle and laugh when they did this and it made me feel rather odd, almost hurt. She didn’t smile like that at me so she must love him more than me. I’d lay in bed thinking on an night about this and feel angry. I new exactly what they did on a night because mother had told me all about that several years ago. The yukky bedroom stuff made me feel more anger and I realised in this anger that I had started to miss my foster family. However something good had to come of this new man called Mark Holroyd. After some more angry nights laid in my bed thinking about it all I soon realised that now mum had this man I could have a real sibling of my own. My focus quickly shifted from being jealous of her boyfriend to nattering for a sibling. I begged daily for a brother or a sister. I yearned for the bigger family after living briefly within the dynamics of a giant one. Maybe if we had a bigger family everyone would get on better? Maybe mum would be happier or maybe it wouldn’t be all my fault for once? I could share the blame and guilt and sharing is fun.
Her boyfriend Mark Holroyd spent a considerable amount of time with us. I got used to it, started to like him a little too- but the jealousy never went away. More time past and then the summer before I was 11, so it was 1999, mother missed her period. I wasn’t fully aware of what a period was but she wore adult nappies like my baby born doll and she definitely became more cross at me. Mark stopped taking us out and I thought it was because I had trashed my bedroom in a frantic rage over feeling pushed out by them smooching. Later that month I learned it was because my wish had come true. Mum was pregnant.
Grandma always said I was spiritual, magic and enlightened. She spoke repetitively of me having a ‘gift’ what ever that meant but perhaps it was true? I had prayed every night and crossed every finger and every toe for what felt like forever for a brother or sister of my own. Mum wasn’t happy like I was, even me bouncing on her bed shouting “I’m going to be a big sister” didn’t cheer her up which shocked me as usually she would jump on the bed with me. The only thing I new to do in this situation was to natter. I had to try and get her attention because all she did was lay on the sofa and cry. ” Please let me have my brother or sister mummy” I would write on letters to her and draw pictures of flowers and love hearts. “Please let me be a big sister, I will help and I promise we will be OK ” I’d say to her everyday. Her boyfriend still never came round, odd but it didn’t bother me. I was busy planning games to play with my new sibling and helping mum shop for baby things.
Obviously this lead to me never leaving her side, how could I? School was no longer important, my baby was. Mum started getting really big and stroppy by autumn. People wanted to talk to her again and look at her baby tummy. Mum doesn’t like talking to strangers and she started getting very nasty but looking back at her now as an adult myself I can see it was fear and possibly maternal, protective instincts. As she grew larger I could see my baby brother or sister moving inside of her stomach. I kissed her tummy everyday and listened to the bubbly noises with my ear pressed against the firm bump. I loved her tummy so much. I had never felt that kind of love before and it made me feel really happy. We found out in the October that I was having a sister! A Sister, I was ecstatic. Mum took me to the scan, a special black and white T.V showed me my sister. She looked like a bean with four legs and was very wriggly. Mum got mad at hospital, something to do with getting my sister out of her tummy. Mother wanted a C-section because she had, had that with me and she was adamant that she wanted another. I can still see now how confused the nurses looked at her request for a C-section, this made mother even more angry and they mentioned speaking with external services about her lack of co-operation. Aside from this my sister was arriving on valentines day! How amazing is this I thought, just before my birthday in March, I couldn’t wait, it was going to be the best birthday present ever!
A few more weeks passed and the leaves fell from the trees and the darker nights drew in. I definitely didn’t want to get out of bed for school as the walk was bitterly cold and besides mum needed me to look after her. Christmas was fast approaching and making Christmas decorations and lists was far better than spelling tests and cold outdoor play. I wasn’t very good at spelling or grammar and those tests made me feel stupid and the tummy ache would always return on test day. As November approached we were spending every day watching T.V and eating cupcakes and this particular day we were watching the film called ‘A little princess’ and the door brayed so hard we both jumped in our seats. We had heard the door knocking for a few days now but this was a very loud bang that had a sense of urgency about it. I knew something was wrong again as we hadn’t opened the curtains in a long while and when we nipped to Asda for food mother rushed us around and I didn’t like it, it made me feel scared. After the door went silent I cuddled her and begged her to never let them take me again. I had a baby sister coming soon how could she keep my sister and not me? They didn’t knock again that night and I slept in mums bed from then on.
Later that week we were decorating the Christmas tree, I loved this part of the year so much. Mum always let me do it how I wanted and I’d spend hours making it look pretty whilst she would watch from the sofa with Tandy by her feet. She always encouraged my creative side and I will always cherish that. I’d not quite finished the tree and the letter box went. Tandy bolted up and barked so we knew someone was at the door again. However I realised it was late evening and the post man never came in the evening so I was itching to see what was posted. I crawled to the front door so know one would see my shadow through the curtains in the lounge. I opened a lot of post it was fun- another boundary not learnt or taught.
It read ” We have a Court Order to remove Francesca from your care permanently for her safety”.
I didn’t know what ‘Court Order’ meant but my tummy new it was bad. Mother became hysterical and I felt so scared, all of a sudden hot blotches raced up my neck. I never did finish decorating that tree.
The hiding began again. The next few days would turn into a cat and mouse chase with social services and the authorities. Mum had one last friend- she helped the best she could. Sadly lack of money, no car and being heavily pregnant meant time was borrowed and we didn’t get far. The sour face people found us at mums friends house in Cookridge. I tried to hide in the wardrobe- it was pointless. The trauma of being ripped away from my mother was to repeat once more. Clinging on for dear life they peeled me from her pregnant waist like I was a piece of dead skin, the flaky type that’s the result of sun burn. Dead is how you feel inside when cold faced emotionless social workers remove you from your birth parent. Dead is a state of mind that allows you to disconnect from the reality that is your life. Kicking and screaming was again pointless I had done that before. I was exhausted from the last 24 hours of running and living in fear of them finding us. Mum threw her oversized red coat with tiny white flowers on over me as they escorted me to the car. Wrapping it around my slender frame and wiping snot from my face with the sleeve my body trembled with pain from my heart. Door shut, child lock on and the 3rd cage began to drive. Staring at the world through the car window I replayed over and over and over again in my mind what I wanted to do…
I wanted to smash the window with my fist like Uncle Mark had. I wanted to jump out of the moving cage and run as fast as my legs would carry me to my mother and my baby sister that I had just left at the side of the road. Anger engulfed my body, I hate them all, I hate them so much! I envision spitting and biting them and then running away. Reality is I couldn’t as I now didn’t know where I was. Unsure of how much time had passed but aware I was feeling hungry which meant it had been a while, the car pulled up to a very large creepy looking building. It reminded me of the big building in the movie ‘A secret Garden’ only it wasn’t quite as big. Just like in the film it had a huge field and a swing. The social worker walked me to the swing and I slumped on it like I was an old woman with a bad back. Tired, frail and weak I couldn’t even swing myself. It’s as if whilst in that cage any aspect of my inner child had diminished. If I were to survive this pain, if I were to not die from this broken heart from being taken from her again, I had to become like a stone. Stones don’t feel pain, know one cares about stones and they get thrown, kicked and crushed and that is exactly what these social workers had done to me today.
Written by Francesca Shaw during the recovery of my surgery in May/June and July of 2018
The Wise Womb Woman 