12 years old. The day I left home. Part 1.
I'd say it was about 5pm when this life-changing incident occurred. I was at home with my mum mary, my step dad must have been on the road with his band and some of my brothers and sisters, this was usual in holidays and weekends. My mother, whom we kids/husband constantly waited upon, requested some ice cream which I brought to her in the lounge where she was watching telly. after a while she asked for seconds, when I handed her the second bowl she asked me if I had washed it before putting the fresh ice cream into it.
I remember thinking I was in trouble whatever answer I gave, if I hadn't washed it I would be beaten if I lied and said I had then I would also be beaten. I lied. She threw the bowl at me and after I cleaned up the mess I was sent to bed to await the norm, which would mean that when my step dad had finished singing in whatever city it was that night I would be woken from sleep stripped naked and beaten with an electrical cord.
12 years old. The day I left home. Part 2.
Before getting into bed I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, watching myself swallow a bottle of my mother's prescription pills. I felt detached and wounded. Once in bed I put the empty pill bottle inside my quilt cover and awoke in an intensive care ward at Leeds hospital, five days later, a day before my 13th birthday. After intensive care I was put on an adult ward, what I'd done had been too dangerous to mix with other children. The psychiatrist seeing me was cold and compassionless and disbelieving. I had decided, if they make me go home I would jump out of the hospital window. I had no visitors except when my eldest sister snuck in to my room, at home she was beaten for this.
Assigned a social worker called Mr. love who was like a lovely uncle and taken to an assessment centre, children's home in Leeds. The head of that home knocked us about a bit some times in a scary way but he was using physical discipline in a much more natural way than the perversions of my parents and in the late 70's and early 80's this was the norm, all though starting to die out by this time. I always remember a social worker that accused me off not needing to be there as I had a lot more than the other kids, coming from a middle class background. Ha ha. She would never understand the relief I felt to be free from the cruelty of my parents. After assessment I was sent to a community school for girls in Sheffield's Moorside. The next few years were about to be beautiful and progressive.
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