Family Is Everything And Without It We Have Nothing

Hello, 

"The stressing was over and I could finally try and look forward to the weekend," I thought to myself as I left work for the day heading into Bedford town centre. I still had so much to do before the family wedding I was attending the following morning, including collecting my dress from the seamstress for the second time after they messed it up the first time, creating capped sleeves that look as though they were hemmed by a 2-year-old. Nevertheless, as I hopped in the car I took a call from Mr Warehouse to say that he was with my Aunt and Uncle from southern Ireland in the bar of the hotel around the corner from where we live and I should hurry over for a quick one before heading home. 

Dashing from one venue to another I headed into the somewhat elegant looking hotel and conference centre the wedding was being held at and where some of the guests were staying. Sure enough, as I pulled up in my car and got out my Auntie came out to greet me, something I was glad of. After the last week I had, I was more than relieved to see her and hear her comforting words. 

Sitting at the bar it was getting darker outside as afternoon sun turned to night skies it wasn't long before Mr Warehouse said about heading home for some dinner and an early night, after all, it was now a matter of hours since we all needed to be at the church on time. Leaving me at the bar with my Auntie and now my Uncle, we were soon joined by my Father and some of his friends, also staying at the hotel. My Auntie continued to explain to me her day and how fumbled it was in trying to get her nails done for tomorrows festivities and failed, to which she had asked if I was any good. I obviously said yes as whilst I have been having my nails done for the last few years I was still a dab hand at coating my talons with a lick of paint or two and so I said that I wouldn't mind helping her out. 

Leaving the rest of them in the bar area, my Auntie and I grabbed some pizza's and a bucket of ice and headed to her room. Settling in I was fucking starving after not eating anything since lunch and with it being gone 7pm, I felt as though I was wasting away and every effort to stick with my new diet and the healthy eating plan was fading by the scent of melted cheese and pepperoni on a thin stonebaked crust. Getting comfy on the bed she started to ask me about how things had been since we last saw each other in the spring when we were scattering my Grandfathers ashes. A lot had changed really. I was many more months closer to Mr Warehouse and I getting married ourselves and our tiny puppy Frankenstein was all grown up, well several months older. 

Chatting away over pizza and many drinks of Martini (I was on damage limitation drinking water, but I was also driving) my Uncle soon arrived, explaining in no uncertain terms that the conversation in the bar had dried up and he had very little in common with the revellers and so had come back to the room to (as I should have been doing) get an early night. As I sat in the room, chatting and laughing away with my Aunt and Uncle, I knew that it would be these moments I would cherish, both now and later on when maybe they are no longer able to sit down and talk. 

I have been ever so lucky that since my parent's divorce and the whole being kicked out debacle back when I was seventeen, I have remained in contact with my families, both mother and fathers side, and as I get older the more and more I seem to become closer to them. They well and truly have my back and with all the love and support in the world I know I can do anything with these people behind me. I suppose you would expect any family to do all of that, however, this is something I have come to realise that not everyone gets the memo in some families. I think that out of everyone they would be the ones I turn to if I needed anything, positive or negative. Need some help gardening, I have an uncle for that! Need some advice on boyfriends, I have an Auntie for that! Need to learn some DIY skills, I have an Uncle for that! Need a good drink and to feel better about yourself, I have an Auntie for that! I think that sometimes you don't realise until certain things in life happen that those closest to you will fight the hardest for you. 

It's funny, as a kid I look back on my Aunties and Uncles and still see them in the same ways as I always have done, the joker, the clown, the tough cookie and the no-nonsense. And yet as I sat on that bed and spent time with them all over the weekends wedding, I noticed a little more grey in their hair, or maybe a few more wrinkles that weren't there before. Truth is that when all is said and done, it will be myself left, with only memories of how we laughed and giggled and gossiped and bantered. Just me and my cousins, and somewhere else, my brother too. 

The following day went well, although could have done without some of the hiccups along the way, but if it taught me anything is that who is really there for you and when in times of uncertainty and emotional war. I honestly never thought I would have a relationship that I do with my Aunties and Uncles as I do to this day, and for all their flaws and mine, were family and that is honestly all the fucking matters now!

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

A Mothers Love: Part II

Bloggers Note: I have recently decided to start a thing going whereby if you yourself have a 'Trial or Tribulation' that I can help with then feel free to drop me a free and fully confidential message by popping it on a mini form in the right-hand sidebar or email me at: Abbbey4@gmail.com :) xx

Evening All, 

Scrolling through my social media pages in the lazy haze of a Sunday afternoon I noted the popularity of giving love and appreciation to the single person who bore their very existence. Yes. Sunday was Mothers Day in the UK and amongst endless streams of comments, mother-and-child selfies and lovingly prepared roast dinners I couldn't help but yet again feel that very slight loss of something that had never really existed in the first place ... 

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   Continued ...

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7:56pm and  I was still waiting. I should have been there by half past. And now I'm late. I wouldn't mind but the reasons for my tardiness was not self-inflicted. Yet again my parents were arguing. The divorce had only been announced lass than a fortnight ago and it was several days since we learnt as to the apparent catalyst being my fathers adultery. You see tonight was an important one for me. I was meeting my first proper boyfriend's parents for the first time and I was already nearly thirty-minutes late meeting Mr. Ginge. Finally I could take no more and storming past my pre-teen brother covering his ears so as not to hear I raged up stairs to tell them to stop. After several weeks of fighting and relentless spats my father left. As children, my brother and I were told that he was a useless father and to 'look what he had done to us, just left us' were her words to us explaining his departure. Funny thing is out of the whole experience I can never remember the moment in which my father walked out of the front door. I recall my brother in hysterics, begging him not to go and wailing for his Daddy consoled only by an equally devastated big sister whom yet again was left to pick up the pieces. And like before things fell to me to take care of. The washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning, packed lunches, school bags packed, homework, bills and everything else in between that in my eyes a parent should be doing. As the visits to a particular male friend increased the more and more lonely I became. My brother began to lash out at me not knowing how to deal with such a colossal life change and we clashed a lot. In the end Mother found it easier to simply take him with her on occasions and leave me waiting for their return, sometimes not until the very small hours of the following day. As a result and not unsurprisingly I began to slip deeper into an unknown depression. 

My resentment grew as the weeks passed us by. Weeks grew to months and as I continued to juggle home-life, sixth-form and work it left me little time to socialise with friends or even see my boyfriend. A part of me knew how much of a rock he was in my life but it is only now looking back on our relationship just how much stability he provided. On many occasions I was forced to cancel plans with friends or Mr. Ginge to go home and clean only to be greeted with a blank stare on my Mother's return from a night out with male company. I began to get paranoid. Constantly wondering where she was or who she was with, whether she had a car crash or was dead somewhere. I would never know. She seldom told me or my brother where she was going of an evening and told us that it was her business and not our concern. As a result of a constant not-knowing I would stay up late into the night and even on a few instances would wait until sunrise to make sure my mother came home. A few times she didn't and it was those times that concerned me the most. In my eyes she was still married and as a married women with two children still of educational age should be at home and not out chasing tail. 

I tried to be their for my brother as much as possible but it was hard when at sixth-form all day and then work in the evening. I worked alongside my mother in a school as one of my first jobs so would normally see her coming into work as she was going out. One evening in mid-November I didn't see her car in the car park and when I enquired as to her location the office staff simple shrugged their shoulders as if it was a regular thing. An hour or two later I get a phone call. Its my brother. He's in state crying and hyperventilating down the phone. After calming him down he was able to explain how he had been hungry after getting home from school and didn't know when dinner was so was trying to cook some food. In an accident the oven had caught fire and whilst no-one was hurt and their was no major damage my twelve-year-old brother was in total shock and needed someone with him. Where was my mother. No-one could get hold of her not even the emergency services. After this our neighbours kept a watchful eye on us and a few time had threatened to call social services as a result of the lack of parenting. Motherly intent came soon though as she tried to prop me and my brother in front of a therapist to try and help us come to terms with the divorce and as pointless as it was all I wanted to do inside was scream! 

After months of turmoil and as I sat in a empty house on the 31st of December 2008 I knew things had to change. Just how much they would alter in the next year would be something I could have never predicted. As the temperature cooled even more so than before, so did my Mom's attitude towards me. She started to invite her new beau round to what was once the family home and on occasions we would attempt replicating family time like sitting down to a nice dinner or watching a film. But something didn't feel right. I actively disagreed with her views and opinions voicing them to her and others. Outraged at her behaviour one evening she stormed off as I was left with the house-work. Then in comes this man who happens to be a 'good friend' of hers and tries to give me a pep talk on why I shouldn't answer back to the person who gave me life. Appalled, I told him where to get off and that telling me what to do was my fathers job not his. A spiteful comment followed and from that moment on we never saw eye to eye. As a result I was outcast and never invited to movie-nights or day trips out. 

In the months that followed January that year I was constantly unsure of life. Every weekend without fail as I called my Mom to let her know was staying at Mr. Ginge's for dinner she would create a scene ending either with me having to leave early with no sense of why or threatened with being chucked out. Nervousness and anxiousness took hold every single time I picked up the phone or dialled her number on an unbroken knife edge just waiting for the next fight to break out. On several dates I can recall being told as Mother left with my brother in one hand and car keys in the other that I should be gone by the time she is home. When asked where I should go she simply answered that she did not care. Many a time I found myself in a family members car or on their sofa just crying, begging and pleading them not to take me back. I hated it there. I hated her. I had enough. I wanted out. But no-one knew what to do with me and as the manipulating adult in the situation everyone around me was simply told that I was a troublemaker and that I kept running away. She even tried to get my Dad arrested for kidnap at one point as I sought refuge with my grandparents who happened to be offering him a room since moving out of the marital home. This went on for nearly eight-weeks, a constant cycle of promises and let downs. In between all my other exploits I was still trying to find time when I could steal some moments away with my father whom I missed like mad. Crying out for help as I begged him to help me I knew he was powerless in bringing me solace. That was until we planned a what should have been a wonderful weekend away. It was to turn out very very differently. 

Months of planning an preparation had gone into planning my bank holiday weekend with my father. My brother opted out of spending the weekend with us and so it was to be Dad-and-Daughter time with my grandparents camping somewhere in the countryside. I had planned to go to sixth-form in the morning and take that afternoon/evening off work but on hearing my plans Mother had forbidden it knowing full well that this would hinder my fathers plans of a settled weekend with his baby girl. I decided that for the sanity of all parties I would just tell my Mom that I was going to work when in actual fact I was not. This was a little white lie that was to back-fire in the most cataclysmic way. The evening before was like many prior and I had waited up until 4.30am to make sure Mother was home safe. Reluctantly retiring to bed I knew I would not sleep tonight. As the sun rose on that May morning I heard the familiar sound of a car reversing into the driveway at high speed. The well-known hum of the engine cut out and the car door clunk open. Thin stiletto heels clacked onto the concrete and echo up to the front door where I heard the key turn in the lock and hearing her walk into the lounge and shut the spring hinged door behind her I knew Mother was home. It was less than an hour to pack my bag, make sure everything was ready for my brothers morning ahead and make my way to the end of the road to meet my Dad at the bottom of the road to take me to sixth-form. Trunching down the stairs I knew full well that my mother would be in the front room awaiting my arrival however when crashing through the door I found her in a slumber on the sofa. Noticing she was not awake yet and completely KO I decided to make a run for it. Sprinting to the end of the road in the freezing cold was like a breath of fresh air in my lungs. I had never felt so happy or been so pleased so see the bright red Landrover parked up. I dumped my bag in the boot and hopped in the front, not turning back to look down that street for fear of what I might see chasing after me. 

After finishing double-English Language and Literature I again took pride of place in the front passenger seat alongside my old man. Clipping in my seat belt he turned to me and asked if I was still sure about doing this and what repercussions may happen as a result. I nodded, at that point never more sure of anything else in my life. Take me away Daddy. Save me. As we started our journey the phone calls from Mother began, firstly it was just a text message to see if I wanted to meet up with her for lunch, which I knew was a sign she was on to us as she had never taken an interest before. After that the phone calls became more frantic and constantly making my phone vibrate with aggression and fury at the betrayal. Eventually I answered. It was her. Like a maniac she flew off the handle shouting and screaming at me as my father watched my world fall apart once more in front of his very eyes. The entire three hour journey to the campsite was eaten up by the poison that had been building up for years, infecting me yet again and bringing me to a shaking, nervous wreck. The last thing she said to me was that waiting for me when I get home would be my belongings on the front lawn in black bin bags. A mere shell of my former self I hung up and was taken in by my grandparents on arrival and calmed down. 

The weekend passed in a blur and soon enough it was time to go back to the hellish normality I was bound to. As before I anticipated that the remarks of being thrown out were lies and words of hatred with no meaning just callous intent, although a little part of me did wonder whether this would be it. I didn't have long to wait and as my father and I pulled into my childhood street we both took a large breath and prayed it would be alright. Pulling up outside the suburban home we all once dwelled the engine had barely been turned off before the front door flew open in a fit of rage. Out swang big black bin-liners. My clothes, my shoes, my stuffed animals, my books, my ornaments, my belongings. Everything a seventeen -year-old-girl should have was bundled carelessly into thin bags and deposited as promised on the front yard for all to see. Under instruction from Father I remained in the car. This did not stop the tyrant though from approaching me. As the shouting match started and my case was brought to the table she burst open the passenger side door screeching in my face, bellowing about my wrong doings and how much of an awful person I was. Taking no more of it my father gathered the rest of my things as I bravely fought back tears and shielded myself from her reign of abuse. Getting into the car Daddy yelled at her to let go of the car. She did not. The car was started and the engine growled into action. Daddy said it again and again it was ignored. Taking no more Dad put his foot down and started to drive off. Mom ran after the car attempting to keep up but her less than agile size made it impossible for her to keep up. stumbling her grip on the car and me was loosened and I watched as she screamed at my departure in the wing mirror. 

And that was one of the last encounters I had with my mother. As the years have gone by I have grown up and learnt to stand tall and proud. There were times after that moment where I thought things could possibly be salvageable, but over time her reluctance to accept that whilst I told a little white lie she was mostly in the wrong for throwing her first born and her only baby girl out onto the streets with nothing more than her father's net to catch her as she falls. In the beginning I thought that maybe one-day things could be different and that we would share happy memories together despite our past but I now know that this is fantasy. On occasions we have been in the same room together but it has rarely ended well, either ending up in an argument or one of us leaving. Her manipulating ways have not changed in the past seven years. Nothing has. She still proclaims that I left of my own accord and has even fallen out with her own siblings about this and other things surrounding our non-existent relationship. I suppose in a way I have come to realise that I will never have a mother-of-the-bride. I will never see the tears at how beautiful I look after the labour of my first child. I will never know what it is like to be hugged and loved and told that I am special to her. That is something I know I will never have. But I'm OK with that all because I am in the knowledge that one day I shall share in that with my own children and vow never to make the same mistakes again. 

And so, Happy Mothers Day to one and all, may you cherish your Mom's. Appreciate their love and commitment and all that they bring you because anyone can bring a child into this world, but it takes a mother to raise it. 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

A Mothers Love: Part I

Bloggers Note: I have recently decided to start a thing going whereby if you yourself have a 'Trial or Tribulation' that I can help with then feel free to drop me a free and fully confidential message by popping it on a mini form in the right-hand sidebar or email me at: Abbbey4@gmail.com :) xx

Evening everyone, 

Parents. You can't choose them can you. Once young people themselves they become known to you only as Mom or Dad. And every year we take forty-eight hours out of the year to celebrate and appreciate them as the people who taught us everything we know now. As some of you may know I love my father till the ends of the earth, but what many of you probably don't know and have maybe wondered why my mother is hardly mentioned. Well now I feel is the right time to tell you why; And just in time for Mothers Day!

The year was 1991. The first Starbucks opened in LA, the World Wide Web is announced to the world and Ötzi the Iceman is found in the Alps. But over eight-hundred miles away from the mountain region that would soon bear my initials a little miracle was happening and at just gone lunch time at a busy maternity ward in Bedfordshire a baby girl arrived. I was born to a soldier and his wife, and as I was handed to my first-time parents I opened my tiny eyes to the world making my father cry with joy. And to think that he nearly missed my late arrival for a bacon sandwich! Growing up was as to be expected in a military family and I always knew from a young age that things weren't like other families. My father would be away for long periods of time often missing important events like Birthdays and Christmas'. But I knew that he was needed elsewhere, helping out in war zones like Northern Ireland and the first Gulf war of the early 1990's and then again in later years when dictatorship in the Middle East ruled again. This left me alone with my mother alot of the time to which the majority of the time was pleasant but certainly not a time where I would look forward to being in her constant company as I always felt inside that there wasn't anything special shared between us. 

The arrival of my brother in early summer of 1994 was a welcomed edition to our little family and as a result we moved to a larger family home in the quiet suburbs, close to family and soon to be life-long friends. With my fair hair and porcelain skin I was the apple of my fathers eye and a cutie no grandma could refuse, but with a new baby boy in the family I felt a little cast out and with this the feelings of discontent my mother emulated started to breed. Even as we got older, I knew that something wasn't right, the way she bonded with my baby brother was different to my experiences. As my Dad was away alot on weekends with the Army, he was always under the impression that the wife had something wonderful planned for the children whilst Daddy was away. On numerous Friday evenings my Dad was fed plans of girlie shopping trips and mother-daughter craft days before he went away and on numerous Sunday afternoon's he would be served up lies of what never happened. Instead, Mother would always take my brother shopping or on a trip out somewhere to visit friends for coffee whilst I was left at home alone, watching TV or browsing that new thing called The Internet! 

Approaching adult-hood hormones ravaged my pre-teenage body and I became more aware of myself and my personality. I started listening to rock music, experimenting with fashion, make-up and hair-styles and generally rebelling against my Christian upbringing. At times I found myself completely intolerable to my mothers attitude, her mood swings and her manipulative games. As a teenager I found solace in music and socialising with friends but even that she tried to snuff out always cementing unreasonable curfews for no reason and finding constant chores to do around the house. Looking back I can see no reason for her acting in this way but what I do recall is the readiness for an confrontation and the argumentative streak. So many times my mom would promise me a weekend of fun and activities to bond over and so many times there would be a reason not to follow through. One day I think I just gave up hope and as a result stopped believing what I was told. Starting secondary school a hatred began a slow simmer. 

I came home from one of my first weeks of middle school to find my mother home from work, crying and screaming at me to watch the TV. In a panic and not wanting to upset her further I sat on the floor of my childhood living room. It was the first moment I think we had spent together in a while and we watched silently, both captivated by what we were witnessing unfolding. The horror that we saw, the devastation that it caused and the inevitable consequences it would have on our family. The date was September eleventh 2001. I was less than a fortnight away from my eleventh birthday. 

A year or so later, a crisp, brown envelope landed on our door mat that was to alter life as I knew it forever. The second Gulf war had been in progress for a few years but now with Saddam Hussain's power growing by the minute, Great Britain stepped in and after nearly all his working life in training for this moment my Dad left for war. People ask me all the time what it was like. Truth is I was accustom to it already. He had never been there on my birthday as long as I can remember apart from maybe one or two and had always been away for military exercises and camps so for me as a girl with a father in the Army I knew that someday the time would come that all the practise he had done in preparing for war would finally happen. Standing there at the huge green gates of my school with my beloved old man crouched in front of me in his combats a crowd of excited school children gathered a few yards behind me desperate to get a glimpse of my hero's attire. Without saying anything of importance I was told that he loved me and then left. Back to my classmates, I sobbed silent tears knowing that I might not ever see my father alive again and that all to easily he could come home dressed in nothing more than a white bag and dog-tags.

With my strong maternal instinct and a personality I hoped would brighten the darkness we were all in as a family but to no avail as my mother sunk into a fast and heavy depression leaving her completely incapable of caring for her young children and leaving me to step into the shoes. I cooked and cleaned, sorted out the washing and made sure that my brother was always dressed ready for school with a full packed-lunch for the day ahead. I ironed the clothes and sorted the bills into piles of ones that could wait and ones that could not. Looking back I feel that this is where I taught myself to create a facade of perfection, despite the distance from truth it was. After dealing with depression at the time and also later on in my life, those memories are one of the fewer things I don't begrudge my mother for. I can't imagine how hard it must have been however I feel that despite all of that the role of a parent should always take centre-stage and for motherhood never to be put on a back burner. It wasn't until a few years later after speaking to friends and family that not only was my mother in a dark place but I too was in the grips of my first ever experience with depression without even realising it. Shut off from family and friends I think it was during that time I left my childhood behind and became who I am today. 

After nearly a years tour a man returned home to his family, a mere shell of what he once was. After a few hours with him snuggled on his lap as I always had, I knew he would never be the same man who left me at the school gates. Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder had stolen life from him as he knew it constantly keeping him on edge. I remember once being in the car driving with him when a swift crack of a passing branch caught one of the window's. Without thinking my Dad frantically started searching for something, patting down the doors and the area around the drivers seat. He was looking for something. He was looking for his gun. War had turned my beloved Papa into a nervous wreck jumping at any crack, pop or bang. They talk of the hundred-mile stare and even to this day I can catch my Dad doing it. Just thinking, remembering, haunting himself with images of war and conflict. He has never spoken about what he saw or experienced but I cannot imagine that there would be much good to tell. 

Life deteriorated after that and as a family we separated, going off to do our own thing and only meeting around a dinner table at night for dinner whereby nothing of much importance would be said. Laughter rarely happened during those years and as the frequency of arguments between my parents escalated I was aware that their marriage would never last. At twelve I started to notice a huge distance between my mother and father. My mother had a new lease of life and a bounce in her step. I started to notice that mother would spend longer looking in the mirror; Prettying herself, doing her make-up, sorting her hair and generally making more of an effort. But this was not for my Dad's pleasure. No. She would venture out of an evening starting off once a week, only to be increased as the years passed by, to go for coffee or drinks with friends, to go to meetings that never existed and see friends she hardly ever saw. Watching helplessly as my Dad slipped deeper into PTSD but desperately clinging onto the marriage by bring gifts of chocolate, flowers and other romantic gestures to the table that was otherwise empty apart from himself. It was clear how much my father loved his wife of over a decade but it seemed she had other things in her sights, including men. 

For a few years whilst I was at high school my parents tried to put a brave face on and pretend but the cracks were still there and the gaps were getting bigger. By the time I had finished my exams and graduated from compulsory education it was plain to see that it was the beginning of the end. The torture of watching my dad struggle with the uncertain faithfulness of his wife was sometimes unbearable for me also and being old enough to understand and listen and watch the story unfold was all the more eye-opening for me as a teenager. Although life and boys had somewhat passed me by it wouldn't be long before I was attracting the affections of a Rugby playing High school student now know as Mr. Ginge, my first ever proper boyfriend! But less than a week into what would be a year long relationship with Mr. Ginge I was told the news no child wants to hear. 

In true Mother style I found out about my parents divorce in the car during a blazing argument with her. Turned out my father had an affair when I was nine and the marriage had never recovered although I have always said that the affair was not the only thing that contributed to the marriage's demise but also the fact that we were a military family whereby my father was away alot and also went to war, coupled with my mother's fleeting mid-week escapades all contributed towards the broken home statistic I found myself in. I still remember her screaming to me in her shrill tones and then quietening her voice just enough to make the impact of her words all the more earth-shattering. "Well your father and I are getting a divorce!" She said matter-of-factly in a abnormally calm voice. It was then that my world crumbled. Without my father there I knew life would not be worth living. What was I going to do without him to take the edge of her cruel demeanour? Who was going to save me from her wrath? But they were the least of my worries as the divorce lawyers and solicitors were rallied up the evil was only getting started.

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     To Be Continued ...

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'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx