The Early Years

Now the story of how I came to be, I was about to say `aside from the obvious` but then even that isn't entirely without its mystery... Anyhow, the story of how I came to be is one of a few odd and missing details and some weird though not at all impossible possibilities, a story pieced together with vaguely remembered `facts` retold and some shrewd reading between the lines, that tale though will be for another post.

Born in 1965 to older parents, neither of who were particularity independent and were still quite reliant on their families given they were both late 30`s, I was bought home wearing a ridged hip splint due to clicky hip syndrome, home being the front room of my maternal Grand Mother`s house, Granny as I would call her.

Granny`s name was Florence, my middle name too, after her. She had bore 7 children to a tyrant of a husband, very possibly also Narcissistic. She died when I was around 3 or 4 so I have little memory of her other than a hazy image of her black boots standing on a scrubbed red tile doorstep and just above the boots, the hem of a spotted skirt, a child`s eye line memory, whose image has sadly faded like a old photograph from the frequent effort of trying to re-remember it. She had chronic asthma and the treatment drug in those days was self injected during an attack. I believe she had lived a hard life, like many working class Black Country women of her generation, raising large families on little money, hindered not helped by the man of the house.

I also remember being fed mashed potato and carrots by her, made delicious by a rich gravy. Given that another lasting memory of being nurtured and nourished involved my Nan and buttered crumpets, I`m beginning to see a connection with my self comforting, over eating habit which remains to this day.

My Mother told me the most ridiculous lie when Granny passed away. She told me she had gone away to hospital so they could make her better and when she came home she would be wearing a beautiful picture hat. I missed her and longed for the day she would come home so I could see her again. I asked about her occasionally and one day Mother told me the truth, that she had died. It must of been a couple of years later by now and all that time I had thought of Granny in hospital and kept hoping it was nearly time for her to come back. I was so sad and disappointed, not to mention confused. As an adult I told her I thought it had been a bad decision to lie and attempted to explain the effect it had had on me but she got angry and told me Aunt Iris told her to tell me that. After all she could not possibly take responsibility for the lie and it`s effect on me herself, nothing was ever her own fault..

So what little I know of my first two years spent under Granny`s roof in the front room mainly comes from my Mother, though a compulsive liar and with a selective memory and a habit of embellishing stories to ensure they featured her in her preferred light, I could usually pick out the truthful tales as the details never changed and her tone was more matter of fact than the actress voice that she often used when spinning some charade.

She would tell me she was unable to hold me because the splint was so hard and awkward  "I could barely pick you up" she would say, full of pity for herself not me, "I could just about haul you up onto my hip", which I imagine was reason enough for her not to bother too often. You were such a good a baby though, you would sit in your cot all day and play by yourself. Queue beaming smile that she used when I proved myself to be no inconvenience to her. I believed her, I imagine even at that young age I soon learned that she was not going to hold or comfort me, I was used to little or no attention so demanded none. What affection I did get no doubt came from my Granny when she had time, Granny would be busy keeping house and cooking and Mother would be busy behind the closed front room door, perfecting the art of reading and napping whilst providing me with the most basic of care. I was told I never cried, well why would I....! My Father was out at work all day and upon his arrival home he would be trained to listen to how Mother`s day had been I`m sure and being wary of her temper and rages also careful, as ever, to not show me too much fuss and attention as I was further down in the pecking order.

One chilling tale she retold a couple of times when I was in my teens was this....

Mother: "When we first bought you home we couldn`t get out much and I got so fed up. I`d had a new coat and hadn`t had chance to wear it so your Dad said come on we`ll go out for a run in the car. You didn`t seem very well after a while and went pale and still. We got back and Granny had a look at you and said oh dear I think you`ve got her very cold. She lay you in front of the fire to get your temperature up and gave you a warm bottle. I`d only wrapped you in a thin shawl because it seemed warmer than it was"
..... Despite wearing her own new coat ?

This story has often troubled me. Knowing her feelings and treatment of me over the years to come, her icy lack of empathy and need to be number one, the reality of new Motherhood and responsibility for the first time ever in her life at 38, responsibility she could see no end to until I was grown, well....that must of been something she resented greatly. It really makes me wonder if she was hoping I would some how `slip` away, helped along in that by some innocent oversight of a new and inexperienced parent...she could then play the grieving Mother, too traumatised to ever have another child, it would then always and only be all about her forever. Add to that the yet untold back story of nearly losing my Father because of her narcissistic rages and tantrums and how miraculously she then was able to bear the child she had told him she was unable to carry, a child he dearly wanted though I doubt she did.... and this tale could well have a more sinister implication.

 A little over the top...far fetched....hard to believe...?

Maybe....to be honest I would hope so...

But after 40 or more years of repeatedly experiencing her being enraged and full of cold vengeance at any happy moment when I was seen to thrive or succeed and how her never ending character assassination of me and delight or indifference to any sorrow I suffered, I really do wonder what my Mother had in mind that day....

A Mother, who was narcissistic to a Personality Disordered level, a history of poor mental health, suicide threats, very possibly bi polar, highly medicated, wildly jealous, eager to avoid any responsibility and used to being my Fathers only priority and now in competition with her tiny daughter who was at her mercy....

She never re told this tale after she noticed me watching her and listening intently one day when I was old enough to become suspicious, I questioned her over the details a little and the topic was quickly shut down and never bought up again.

So we lived in Granny`s front room until I was 2 when we moved to the 12th floor of a newly built block of flats and then the `fun` really began.