Please note: this piece contains descriptions of abuse that some readers may find upsetting.
Here I am, three months short of 78 years old, knowing, as a PTSD sufferer, I should not be here. I've stepped in front of trucks and busses and cursed the unseen hands that pushed me to safety. I even tried to swim to France and wondered how far I'd get, only for a fisherman to pull me onto his boat, dry my clothes and feed me warming drinks before delivering me back to shore.
Life, back then was one long journey to nowhere. I’d have frequent holidays in jail for thieving, all because my mother made me believe I was a waste of space who was never going to achieve anything; beating me for being such a disappointment.
Here is my story, as brief as I can make it.
I was raised first by my father. We lived with my grandparents, an aunt and uncle and their only son.
I went to an ordinary school where I was never any lower than tenth out of thirty six pupils. Life felt great until Dad took me to view a one bed flat and asked what I thought of it.
I recall asking why we were even viewing it and he told me, 'Because your mum is coming to live with us, so we have to move.'
I asked him, 'What's a mum?' before I realised I was one parent short.
Life became Dad and Mum sleeping in a bed with my two sisters while I slept on three padded dining chairs in the living room. Mum kept finding reasons to have my dad punish me, which he did privately.
That led her to believe he slapped the furniture rather than my bottom and so, when he went off to work, she took on the task herself. I was made to go hungry so my younger sisters could be fed. So I stole food from shops.
Eventually I was caught and taken to court.
As we waited to go before the judge Mum told me, in a most definite tone, once she got me home my life was over. So just before going into the courtroom, when a total stranger asked me to trust him, I had no reason not to.
He asked the judge to give him two minutes of his time to show why I should be taken into the care of Child Welfare and turned to ask me to raise my shirt up round my neck. When I did the judge immediately placed me into their care.
At the age of eighteen, since I was no longer a child, I had no option but to return to my mother's care.
Here I was, an adult, working for a living and handing over my unopened wage packet to her. Only being given the equivalent of 50p for being a dutiful son. It became too hurtful and, after eighteen months, I ran away.
Life then was travelling from town to town; hostel to hostel or sleeping rough.
One time in a Salvation Army Hostel a poet came to recite her work and as I had nothing better to do I listened closely. Something in her work brought me to tears. I wondered if I could write poetry too.
Rhymes and verses came easy to me and I was surprised to find other people in the hostel wanted to read my work. That made me feel good.
Homeless once again I was led to a night-shelter where I was fed soup and given some floor space to sleep on. I don't know why but instead of sleeping I gathered dirty dishes and spoons and washed them.
In the morning, when it came time to leave, I was taken aside and asked if I had anywhere I needed to be. When I said I didn’t, I was asked to go to the nearby fruit and vegetable market for the makings of the next night's soup. After that the workers let me sleep alongside them.
I was more than ready when they asked me to go to London and do the same for another homeless shelter. There I helped make soup, fed those hungry unfortunates and slept in my very own bed.
That came to an end when I rescued a caring woman from the unwanted and persistent advances of a would-be suitor. She was so pleased she pretended to be my girlfriend.
That pretence soon became a reality. We were wed and I became a wage earner. She gave me two lovely children. I was so deadly afraid. I did not know how to be a father so (knowing she would treat them right) I made her throw me out.
I do care and try to help homeless and hurting people.
Eventually somebody put my name on the housing list and for twenty plus years I have been living in a one-bed flat, surrounded by nice neighbours. I’ve tried to help people who are worse off than me.
I write poetry and articles for a magazine and have stories I'd love to have published and see if their sales can let me be even more help than I am now.
I need to stay alive and try to be, and do, something useful with the rest of my life. Maybe then my children, if they read this, might understand why I left and be proud of me.
This is not a work of fiction but when I think how many times I was saved from disasters of my own making I realise I am glad I am to be able to be here and prove I am not a waste of space.
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