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One journey through life…with the benefit of hindsight!
Well, this is a rare treat – to get to write the story of my life. But, actually, my reason for deciding to do this – the total and hopeless breakdown of any relationship with my son, (they – whoever they are, call it estrangement) is not a happy one. And, it’s true, those that have been a part of my journey have told me, repeatedly, not to beat myself up, not to feel guilty and that I would have tried to parent my son (as I did my daughter) in the only way I knew using the knowledge and resources that I had at the time.
On reflection – and as I start to uncover some of the maybe unspoken but pretty obvious considerations for being a good parent – albeit half a century too late, I actually think (in the words of Only fools and horses), I have been a bit of a plonker.
Anyway, here goes – let me know what you think. Myni
PS You may wonder why I start all this by looking at my own childhood – well, I’ve only just heard the expression inter-generational trauma – which I’ll have to investigate, and the rest. But, I guess, with hindsight, I’d have to admit that my story, really is, a cautionary tale.
I was born, almost 75 years ago, into a fairly posh, fairly well-off, upper middle class, theatrical family in South London -that most people would class as jammy. It wouldn’t be the first time that I heard people say I had been born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Both my parents had been professional actors – my father moved from the stage to become a BBC announcer during the war and then stayed on within the BBC as a radio producer. I was the third generation to be born into this lovely old, tall and slightly foreboding, gently urban Victorian house – which also happened to have a fully working, 60 seat theatre in the basement – the reason-for-living device created my grandfather – who, sadly, died before I was born. Even though my grandfather was no longer around, my step grandmother (his second wife – and that’s another story!) had insisted that ‘the show must go on’. So, this house, with its delightfully assorted household – many of them resting actors (as by that time my grandmother needed their rents to pay for various death duties) – all totally absorbed in the latest theatrical production – was, what it gradually dawned on me, I had been born into.
Even with the benefit of later questioning, I have no idea what happened to me in the first weeks of my life. I know my mother almost died in the effort – and all that my father would ever say on the subject (spoken in a theatrical whisper) was that my mother “was a bleeder”. Other than that I know I was born in a major London hospital – whether by the standard route or by caesarian – I haven’t a clue. There was also a rumour that an au pair had been brought in – but had also needed to be swiftly removed – and I still haven’t been unable to get any answers about the burn scar I have permanently etched into my leg. Abuse? Wasn’t really a common word in everyday vocabulary at that time – so who knows.
Of course, the only way I can reflect on my life is from the position of hindsight. And, as soon as I knew about anything, I knew that I should have been a boy. Of course, again, I am aware that there are no certainties surrounding my views – ie they are – just that – my views. But, that said, my father was beyond desperate to have a son and was obsessed – if not with actual families (he saw his mother while she was alive, and his brother once a year on Boxing day – just to parade me, I always thought), certainly with family trees. Later on when I started to look for answers I put my father’s obsession down to the very public split and divorce of his parents. All his life he idolised his father and detested his mother who he clearly blamed for reducing the time he was able to spend with his father. The result of the divorce was that what my father believed should have come to him as the oldest son – ie his birth-right (important in Victorian days) didn’t, but got split four ways between my father, his brother – plus his father’s second wife and their daughter. I also later found out that, clearly in a bid to provide a son and heir for my father, my mother did go onto have more miscarriages – until it was suggested it was more important for her to be around ie alive for the child she’d only just about managed to have. The only way I knew this is because another person was brought in on the scene while all this was going on to provide steady care for me – a borrowed nanny from a friend. I don’t know how many years Nanny was with us, but I adored her and we remained friends all of her life
Although, implicitly, I always knew that as a girl I was second best in my father’s eyes, he didn’t bear grudges, but just placed all the dreams and aspirations he‘d planned for his son onto my shoulders. Obviously, I never questioned anything at the time – nor for many years, so being able to recite out loud the Greek alphabet and also being able to read and write long before I started school and then onwards being openly groomed to go to read classics at Oxford University (where he had been) followed by a certain career on the stage – was just the outline map of the route I was expected to take.
Of course, we all know about those ‘best laid plans’ ….and the trouble was, I was so put off by learning that I became pretty much unable to learn anything much again – and was actually fearful of teachers going on and on at me – especially when it came to alien territory like numbers and maths.
Alongside this something else was happening to me, which also meant by the time I arrived at school, I was, in a word, already fat. With my beautiful ‘golden’ handsome parents – goodness knows where this came from. I began to tell people I’d been found under a gooseberry bush – and other stories like that, to get a laugh in before they were able to make fun of me. Although my weight was definitely a disability through my schooldays – my theatrical (clearly genetic!) and humorous toolkit has, and continues to serve me well ie I always get in first…..sorted! Although the ‘not in my gang’ mood was often implicitly there – and I seemed to deal with it well, sporting activities were another matter – I was definitely built for comfort rather than speed. I have never ever been much of a team player.
I wanted to draw breath at this point to explain a couple of things. Firstly, if some of my words – and the rest, appear to be on the negative side – they are written not only with my recently acquired knowledge (sad but true) that what we have been through in life can affect our parenting – for better or for worse…but also that I have put myself/my journey into the hands of a psychotherapist.
But, more importantly, I wanted to more than counter my words by saying that – I had two wonderful doting parents, I wanted for nothing, had plenty of friends – lifelong friends, and certainly in the early days my life was, yes, fairly unusual but definitely magical and marvellous.
Apparently, I was a very biddable child but as I approached double figures and adolescence the biddable child went out the window replaced by a teenager from hell. I continued not to thrive at school (at one point I was referred to the child psychologist to see if my weight was affecting my learning), failed my 11plus (the success benchmark of the time) spectacularly and was at the bottom of the bottom stream. I was also wild, angry and uncontrollable and was surrounded by the sort of friends that were my parent’s worst nightmare. My parents could do nothing with me.
Doubtless at the end of their tether, my parents took one final giant step to sort me out. With the collusion of our local vicar, they found an Anglican convent boarding school in Berkshire, my father ‘helped’ me with the entry requirements (a sort of exam) – and, so at the age of 14 years, off I went. There I had to instantly morph into a posh person and because my father had ‘helped’ with my entry exam they assumed I was bright and I was put in the top stream. And, guess what, because they assumed I was bright, I became bright, maintained my position in the top stream, went on to successfully take O and A Levels – and have never looked back. So, yes, boarding school was the making of me, it changed my life.
Well, it should have ended sensibly-ever-after… going on from the success of boarding school days and then onto the London Poly to learn how to become a proper journalist – but, you’ve guessed…it just didn’t.
So, I’d got into the swing of summer holidays abroad with friends – cool, rather than parents – uncool. And decided to celebrate the successful completion of my course – with the holiday to end all holidays before settling into gainful employment. Well, that was the plan. The trip was to be shared with one of the friends I’d made at boarding school. The first idea (in response to a small ad I’d seen in the personal column of the Times newspaper (the Times used to be into that sort of thing) was to travel overland to Afghanistan. My parents said “No”. So when the second idea came along to travel to Iran to join my friend’s brother who was teaching out there, my parents had no option but to say “Yes”. So we went…..
…. and we went for a couple of months. I could probably write a book about this – but it’s not really the point, so I’ll try and stay relevant. But just to set the scene, I’ll tell you about a small event that took place just before we set off for our big adventure… This was the era that became known as the ‘swinging sixties’ – and for girls like me this demanded the ‘uniform’ of mini-skirts – especially in loud, flag-like designs – whether appropriate or not. I was seriously into this. Worried about mini- skirts and me going East, my Mother called the Iranian Embassy for advice. Most of the women in Iran were shrouded in ‘veils’ at that time and the advice was that I should cover up as much as possible while I was there.
Well, of course, I wasn’t having any of that… and mini-skirts did go East with and on me. The result was that living where we did in a suburb of Teheran in a shared mixed house-hold (ie unmarried men and women living under the same roof), the neighbours were clearly disapproving and when I went out alone on foot I was inevitably mobbed and stoned and I learnt that they thought I was a prostitute emerging from a house of ill-repute. I still wore the mini-skirts – just made sure there were wheels if I needed to get from A to B.
Anyway, to continue…we travelled overland by train and then bus – which included experiencing an earthquake in Istanbul ie when the ground moved I really thought I’d overdone the alcohol, a weird experience at the time and terrifying with hindsight.
Our arrival in Teheran was especially significant for me (as you’ll soon find out) as my friend’s brother (unable to pick us up) sent his drop dead gorgeous Iranian housemate – who squealed to a stop in front of us in his flashy red open top sports car. Well, as he instantly satisfied all my current pop star/film star idols dreams (Omar Sharif, Cliff Richard etc – yes, you may judge, but you have to think swinging sixties) – and spoke perfect English with an American drawl – I was already swept off my feet and in another dimension.
I remained completely out of it and in orbit for the whole of the time we were in Iran – soaked up in the atmosphere of the East, that life, the quantities of beautiful, multi-national men (there didn’t seem to be many women to meet), who were there to work – but also to party. Then there was the delightful new experience with – my idol the Omar Sharif look-alike, who only seemed to have eyes for me.
By the time we got to the end of our planned visit, my feet still hadn’t touched the ground, I’d decided to stay forever – and, oh yes, I’d become engaged to my Omar Sharif look-alike. Although, all thoughts of home had been extinguished, I did call my parents to share my plan – which probably didn’t go down well- but as I wasn’t listening I didn’t hear. And so, while I stayed on, my friend returned home, contacted my parents and told them the whole story ; I guess you could say she shopped me.
It didn’t take long for my parents to act as I was still underage. So the consul was contacted and I soon found myself placed firmly on a plane bound for London. (Just between you and me – the true reason that I was placed firmly on a plane was the consul’s first attempt at trusting me to get on a plane home failed due to my having one or two Cuba Libras too many and deciding not to bother with any of this nonsense!)
As you can imagine it wasn’t much of a home-coming – but I did manage to muster the spirit to throw the mother and father of all tantrums. This had the desired affect and my Father made the biggest mistake of his life (ie I’d probably have forgotten about the whole affair if it had been left to die down naturally) by offering to buy an air ticket for my husband-to-be.
Well, my husband -to-be did eventually arrive in the UK – which perfectly coincided with my 21st birthday. So, as my parents had kindly but firmly refused to give their permission to any under age marriage, as my body clock struck 21, we got married anyway. I have to admit, that with just my parents in attendance, it was a pretty sombre affair – although I was on cloud nine.
My father found us a flat nearby to live in, my new husband managed to get a job (I was already working) and we settled into marital bliss. Only surprise surprise it wasn’t. Nine months to the day of our marriage my first child a beautifully natured little girl arrived, followed precisely 12 months after that by the very different and demanding explosion that was my son. I adored them both.
Although I adored my chalk and cheese children it was a beyond taxing situation having two children under two (My mother called me Mrs Carrier-Bagful as I needed so many bags of baby ‘stuff’ wherever I went) and to say that I was ill-equipped was the understatement of the century. It was probably at this time that I was catapulted from blind ignorance to an awakening into personal responsibility-plus.
I just don’t know how I could have been so stupid – but even then the inklings of my wall-to-wall to irresponsibility began to seep into the demands of practical day and night life . How could I have brought two tiny dependents into an environment created in Lalaland? But, that’s exactly what I had done – only it wasn’t anything like Lalaland – more like a horror movie. As we had no experience – and no possible opportunity, of ever forming any sort of stable relationship ourselves – before bringing not one but two children onto the scene the cracks started to appear immediately.
Although my first pregnancy had been fairly peaceful and had produced a peaceful baby – my second pregnancy progressed against a backcloth coloured by my husband’s increasing relationship with alcohol. It wasn’t that he drank all the time – but when he did he couldn’t stop and he turned from a human being into a violence machine – mainly aimed at me. The erratic but increasing bouts of drinking meant that he couldn’t get up to go to work – and this, eventually led to him losing his job. This brought in an associated raft of difficulties under the heading of Money – or rather the lack of it. So I had to start working – part time at first and then full time as the children moved into the
routine of proper school. And alongside this, as it soon became evident that their father couldn’t be relied upon for the task, I had to bring in childminders ie if I didn’t feel the children were safe, I couldn’t work. This was all fraught with difficulties as the often young childminders were either made uncomfortable about the state of my husband or driven away by the extreme behaviour of my son. In the longer term and as I took on the role of breadwinner I found a professional childminder who took the children into her own home. She was awesome, provided stability for the children and, actually, underpinned our survival.
Alongside this my adorable but challenging son who seemed to continuously cry and demand the first year of his life before setting off on a path of destruction (ie he could pull something apart (that wasn’t meant to come apart) before I could reach him to stop it. He then went on to struggle within nursery school and attracted educational psychologists not long after he started at primary school. May be now he would have been given a label but at that time there wasn’t really much of that sort of thing around.
And then my father’s long held wish and plan (that my son should be sent to boarding school – not just any boarding school but the one that he attended) came to fruition and at the age of seven and a half my son was literally packed up and sent to boarding school. Actually, although I stayed outwardly calm and firm, inwardly it was breaking my heart and I shouldn’t have allowed it to happen. But saying “no” to my father was just not an option. I have always thought – with hindsight, it was being sent to boarding school that severed the special – yes, also troubled, relationship with my son. He once later told me it broke his trust in me – and, actually, that’s what I believe to be the truth.
Alongside this, gradually over time, my husband’s mental health began to deteriorate and his behaviour became stranger and stranger until eventually he was making no sense at all which resulted in him being taken off to hospital and sectioned. This didn’t happen overnight but it did happen several times. Eventually he was given a label of Paranoid Schizophrenia. He did have his ups and down and during one of the ups he made the decision to go back to Iran and start a business with a friend – that would be the making of us all. The intended short trip to Iran turned into months and months and because at that time I had little income to support myself and the children I was forced, for the first time to ask for help from Social Services. When he did come back from Iran (the business was never mentioned again), somehow I had found the inner strength to realise I had to bring this marriage to an end – rather than the eternal hope that things would get better and that there was no other way that I could protect the children and give them some sort of decent upbringing. Of course, it didn’t go down well, but somehow I had found the strength to go through divorce as well as practicalities like selling the house and finding a small place to live. It took almost two years to achieve this in a beyond awful environment but achieve it I did.
Although there were times while trying to get out of the marriage – while trying to safeguard the children, when I thought I wouldn’t make it, we did get through and the next 15 years as a single working parent were tough but also joyous by comparison. I have deliberately tried not to talk about or identify the children or their Dad (who died a few years ago), except where I felt it would be good to elaborate further on the issues – just in case it might be helpful for others.
Although my parents (who died about 20 years ago) never seemed to bear grudges and were gracious throughout about the disappointment and pain that I must have caused them – I did increasingly try and protect them from the worst. So if you’re familiar with the saying ‘You’ve made your bed so now you have to lie in it’ – well, I guess, I did that – and continue to do so (thinking about the situation with my son) – even half a century on.
Did I hear someone mention the word “consequences”? Hmm!
There is a Post Script to add to all this…
Although I am no longer in touch with my son – don’t really know where he is or what he is doing – he does seem to have survived. My daughter has always been a wonderful daughter and friend, has gone onto to become a wonderful mother herself and has made an awesome success of every facet of her life so far. Chalk and cheese siblings, you might say. How does that make any sense?
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