Love: The Opposite Of Power - Chapter 2 

Beyond Dysfunctional: A Family Destroyed


At the tender age of 6 years, I lived with two brothers and my mother in a council estate in Sheffield, England. Our estate was rough, and we were neighbored by undesirables. Our semi-detached house was brick-built; having a small lawn surrounding the building, and fields in the area where children would play soccer. The area was generally avoided by respectable people, but it was where the city council decided to place us. My older brothers fought persistently, while frequently getting themselves into trouble, but they were protective of their younger sister. Matt was age 12, and Nick was 10. I could vaguely remember my father. He had separated from us when I was much younger. I felt no desire to see him. My life was complete with my mother and brothers.

Mum remained melancholy. She was forewarned that Hugh would soon have her involuntarily committed to a psychiatric hospital; to save his reputation from the exposure of their affair. When the commitment process completed, her children would be split apart in various children's foster homes. This was because English law requires that children be separated from parents who are diagnosed with any type of mental illness requiring involuntary commitment. We were to be placed in foster care homes, in random undisclosed locations. Mum would never see us again because of Hugh's diagnosis, and the children would never meet together again. Our family was about to die, and she knew it. There was only one way remaining for Mum to protect us, but doing so would require her to make an extraordinary sacrifice. She expressed her sorrow and sense of foreboding in her last poem.


Hope In The Darkness

Friends I know I've chased away,
but I did hope they'd return some day.
Lashing out at those who show they care,
who have allowed me, my soul to bear.

Again I'm falling down a deep dark well.
Will I ever get out, I cannot tell.
Looking around as I fall,
I see shadows, dancing on the wall.

Was that a little light I saw up ahead?
Oh, but someone's put out the flame instead.
Needing guidance to show me the way,
how long in the dark must I stay?

Here by myself has made me more aware,
of the loneliness I find so hard to bear.
Afraid of what's ahead, and not knowing,
not sure if I can keep on going.

I don't know what's right or wrong.
I just know in life, I don't belong.
Once I was offered a helping hand,
but people, they don't really understand.

Everyday hurts a little bit more,
more than the day before.
I just can't keep holding on.
For me now all the hope has gone.

How life is full of fears,
but no ones here to dry my tears.
Nowhere to go, no way out,
No one to help, inside, I scream and shout.

Hope is lost and that's for sure,
and tears don't help me anymore.
Remember me, when I have gone,
it was a battle, I wish I'd won.

-- Mandy


During an uneventful weekend in Easter, I spent time at the home of Uncle Gary with my siblings. I recall exchanging jokes beforehand in our hallway, and telling our mother good-bye. We gave to her our most sincere loving hugs and kisses. Then we walked in unison down a gravel path to Gary's blue car. Mum never stopped waving to us, even as we were driven away. The conversation in the car was one of excitement, for we rarely traveled anywhere, due to our lack of money. Our laughter continued throughout. What remains of that weekend is like a forgotten dream.

Gary and his wife Maria had always visited occasionally. They were very stern with children, and none of us appreciated it. Maria was singularly harsh. Gary appeared to have another side to his personality, in which he was friendly to us, with a disarming sense of humor. I wanted to be like Gary in many ways. As a police officer who worked with children, he commanded everyone's respect. I fantasized about being like him when I became an adult.

Maria and Mandy were never close sisters, despite them being put in a care home together at a young age. They were falsely accused of arson in their own home, and such a story made the newspapers. Over a hundred fires were lit in their household, and both were blamed. As soon as my youngest aunt, Moira, was tall enough to reach the oven, it was her turn to endure the blame. Maria and Mandy were full of resentment because they were discarded in the care home whilst the rest of the family went on holiday. Uncle Martin finally came forward in his early twenties to admit that he had started all of those fires, but as the favorite child, nobody had ever suspected him.

Mum was married by age 17, and pregnant at age 19, which Maria held against her. Maria wanted to be successful in different, more materialistic ways; perhaps through a career, or otherwise. Maria looked upon my mother as if she were disgraceful for having children so young, and getting herself involved in a serious relationship without 'taking time to live' herself. Maria gained ammunition from Mum's marriage to a man for 10 years, who eventually suffered from alcoholism, and abusive tendencies. The beloved Mandy was no more than a colossal failure to Maria.

There was no answer to the knocks upon the door, when we returned home on Sunday, so our Aunt Maria briefly returned to her car for her emergency key. Upon entering, there was a deafening silence inside our home, as if something had sucked all of the life from it. We shouted for Mum as the sensation of emptiness fell upon us. Expectantly we searched about for a note explaining her whereabouts, and when she might return. Chilling silence was all that we found. My four brothers and I grabbed some of my toys, since we obviously would be spending more time in our uncle's home. My brothers considered themselves too adult for toys. Fostering their sense of elder responsibility, they entertained me, as I played with my dolls. Our play did not come easy due to a nagging worry. Maria did not conceal her rage well during the return trip. She was furious about our mother having dumped us upon her. Maria's voice became increasingly deep, and disgruntled. Her heavy breathing led to a quiet return journey. None of us knew the contents of the envelope which had been left in the door of our house, except Maria. I know now, at ten years later, what was written in that letter.


Maria

I'm sorry, I just couldn't cope anymore. Please look after my children: DON'T PUT THEM IN CARE. I'm a failure as a person and a mother. They need people who can show them a positive attitude. You and Gary are like that. Please give each of my five children one of my porcelain dolls to remember me by. The biggest one going to Sarah. Tell them how much I loved them. I've left a black bag for Hugh's family. I've written telling him. Please be gentle with my children. This is the best for them in the long run. I'm sorry, forgive me - you never thought I lived up to much anyway.

Mandy

Please take care of my children. Make sure they know it's not their fault, it's nothing they've done.


For days, we hovered by our uncle's telephone waiting for mum's call. The news media reported: "Depressed Mother of Three Missing". It was a story generating interest and excitement. The journalists seemed to love parading our misery to sell more newspapers. They mercilessly printed every imaginable false rumor and accusation to fuel the rumors further. This led friends to ask piercing questions about who we were as people, and construct their own bizarre interpretations of what the media had reported.

Our waiting continued for 8 days, but it seemed like weeks. I gathered with my four brothers late in the evening of March 29th, 1997. We were excitedly waiting for more news, since we had overheard that our mother was found. We understood something terrible had happened, but we inferred that she would finally be safe. Nothing else mattered. We knew that we would soon be reunited with her. We began planning a surprise celebration party to welcome her home. I gleefully imagined it sparking her lovely smile, which had become such a rare occurrence.

"Well, it isn't good news", my Uncle Gary stated flatly to dampen our spirits, and prepare us for grave news. With lingering hope the children innocently proclaimed, "At least she is safe". We believed it without doubt as only children could. Gary sat in the front of the room, with our relatives from all quarters spread throughout, except for my father, who had not yet been included. His voice seemed like the rumbling echoes of a distant thunderbolt when he finally uttered, "She is dead".

Our mother's body had been found lifeless by some passers-by, whilst walking through the Peak District beauty spot in Castleton. The Peak Mountain Rescue Service had recovered her body. It laid upon a hillside in Castleton known as the "Cavedale Walk". Her pants had been removed around the time of her death, indicating that her body was raped whilst taking its last breaths. Her death was judged to be a suicide by Thomas Kelly, Her Majesty's Coroner, of Derbyshire. He wrote that her death was apparently caused by drug induced unconsciousness, which later led to fatal hypothermia. She had taken with her only a blanket, a pillow, and a large selection of tablets.

Gary's words had brought my two eldest brothers, James and Steven, to tears immediately. My brother Matthew was soon wailing too. In disbelief, Nicholas and I remained momentarily quiet. Nicholas asked, "Are you sure that it's her"? Whether this was real doubt, or hopeful doubt that I heard in his voice, I shall never know. I turned my head slightly to look into his eyes, straight through to see him turn hollow and empty inside. He too began crying. When I began crying finally, it was only because everyone else was already crying. I did not know what else to do, for it was so confusing. I wanted mum to walk through the door and tell me that everything was going to be okay. I only wanted to be held again by her. I needed to know that I was safe and loved.

"She is dead" haunted me. I dreamt those words. Sometimes they echoed inside. I played them back to myself over and over, as if they could not really be true. I had only a vague comprehension of how much my life was about to change. I desired to be with my brothers. They were the only people I felt close to and admired. Yet my aunt promised to fight "tooth and nail" to prevent me from living with Don (my brothers' father). I rarely reflected upon the meaning of her words, or how they spelled dividing the family.




Mum had hand-written farewell letters to all the people important to her, which naturally included her children. The longest letter, by far, was to Hugh. I was a teenager before I received my copy of the children's letter. Maria and Don had disregarded Mum's last wishes; so none of the children were informed about her letters.


Dear children

I'm really sorry. I know you must be angry with me for leaving you, but I have to do what I think is best for you. You deserve much more than I can give you. Remember I love you all so very much it hurts. None of this is your fault. It is me that has failed and let you down. I tried my best I really did.

Please remember me with love and I will be watching over you.

Think positive in life, remember what I always used to say P.M.A. positive mental attitude. If I had had this I would have been a better person.

I will love you all forever. Take care of each other and be strong.

I love you all

mum

x x x x x x


I was whisked away to the home of Maria and Gary. The long years in which I would remain there were yet unknown, but I knew that I would be staying there for some time. I prayed with Uncle Gary nightly so Mum would know that I still loved her, and when alone, I would beg God to bring her back to me. I did not feel as if he had stolen her. I felt as though she had gone to him. I so much wanted to visit her. I felt prepared to take my life if it meant that I could spend the days with her.

As we attempted to carry on our lives despite our shock, events tended to blur together. I recall my brothers sitting in the red car together with me in a dimly lit car park. Gary got out of the car and went into the building. We waited for him to return. He nodded to Maria without ever fully returning, and then we exited the car to walk in unison through the door of the large single story building. As we walked in, none were smiling. Everyone in the building seemed to have tears, and they spoke in whispers. I soon realized that we had come to visit my mother's body.

A golden silk cushion covered her face as she lay inside her coffin. We immediately cried. A man asked us,"Do you wish to see her face"? "It is different to what it was before". We unanimously agreed to look. He gently removed the cushion to reveal bruises covering her face, along with small scratches. Our crying intensified as I laid my hand upon her body. She was ice cold: not like I remembered her. I did not understand it. I remembered how warm she was in the past. A few minutes later, we all walked out of the room, but remained in the building. My two eldest brothers returned again to her. They really understood this would be the last time that they would see her. I did not follow them. I had seen enough, and I could not bare more. The salty tears running down my face would not stop, despite how little I understood about the whole affair. Nobody knew anything about my father's whereabouts, and it was not an immediate concern. Our thoughts remained upon the loss of our mother. Iain had been gone from the scene too long for us to do anything more than vaguely remember him.

I remember the family sitting together on the front pew of a church. Every pew was full: proving that she was wrong in believing nobody cared about her. Yet it was too late to tell her. The eulogy talked about her being a mother, a new Christian, and that she was as loved as she loved others. We fought to keep our tears back, but failed. We threw our roses into her coffin, one by one. Matt placed a small wooden house inside, which he had been building as a gift for her. He had carved it himself. He was proud of it, and yet his agony was apparent; for he knew that she would never receive it.

In the long black funeral car we sat calmly, and discussed what a great person Mum was. Yet we all seemed to desire changing the topic, so our mutual desire led us to different, more futuristic topics. A realization hit me as we entered the cemetery. The only memory I would have of her would be the rock named as her gravestone. As we scanned thousands of gravestones, we began to really understand that she would simply add to them. People would forget and move on in a few years. We all swore that we would not be like those people.

As time passed, my life was reshaped by Maria and Gary. I changed schools to one nearby. My friends were all left behind; along with everything I had ever known. I felt stripped and alone without my brothers; whom I had always had near. I had assumed that they would always be beside me. Maria and Gary argued beneath me as I laid in bed at night. Gary had no desire for children, and he did not wish to keep me. Yet Maria desperately wanted me to stay, and she wanted children. This left me feeling like a piece of property. They endlessly debated if I should be stored or thrown out. It made me feel so alone, and I craved the lost attention of my brothers who were far away with Don. Each time Maria left the house, I cried and asked her if she would ever return. Her departures reminded me of the day Mum left forever. I expected everyone else to disappear into the night and die. I knew that somehow it was all my fault.

I often cried for my mother's return, but this was met with fury from Maria. She told me to stop feeling pity for myself, and that she was the person who truly deserved pity for having lost a sister. She explained that my tears only proved I was inconsiderate of her suffering. She told me that I was too self-obsessed, and moreover, too young to understand Mum's death. Maria would also forcefully strike me when I cried. I had no right to express my suffering, since my life was wonderful, she claimed.

In fits of rage, Maria would tell me how the death of my mother was my fault. It was my wickedness that had caused Mum's depression, Maria would rant. I had no reason to doubt her, and those words overwhelmed me. I felt even more alone and uncomfortable than ever before. I felt a need to remain in isolation, since I could barely face the multitude of people whom I had hurt. Maria never found the time, or the humility, to correct her statements.

Gary maintained a mellow attitude of feigned ignorance about everything. He showed very little emotion around me. His demeanor held true to his nickname, "The Ice Man", which was given to him by his police buddies. He did not share Maria's interest in being my parent, so I tried desperately to show Maria appreciation. She was never easy to please. My childish mistakes were treated as though they were unforgivable. She issued a spartan routine for me to follow each day. Yet, whenever I arose from bed too early in the morning, she would strike me. Whenever I forgot to close a door in the house, I would get slapped. They both claimed publicly that they did not believe it was acceptable to physically punish children, but extreme physical punishments would soon became a normal part of life for me.

I whimpered in bed every night to ensure that my tears did not get me further into trouble.