The truth of my childhood
I grew up as the eldest child, but I never really got to be a child. Most kids looked forward to weekends and school holidays — I dreaded them. For me, they meant the start of my mum’s drinking binges.
As soon as she got home from work, the beers would crack open, and our house would turn into a party. Friends and strangers filled the rooms. Fights broke out. Accidents happened.
Sometimes there were suicide attempts. We weren’t allowed to sleep — we were kept awake all night, terrified of what would happen next.
By morning, I’d walk downstairs to find people passed out on the floor, bottles scattered everywhere. My siblings would be crying, hungry, confused. And at just six, seven, eight years old — it was me who searched cupboards for food, me who cleaned the mess, me who tried to keep us safe.
I didn’t have a mum who read bedtime stories. I didn’t have a mum who helped with homework or took me to the park. I had a mum who chose alcohol. I felt abandoned. I felt invisible. I felt like I didn’t matter.
One day, I was so desperate I even called social services myself and begged them to take me away. But nothing really changed. I just had to keep surviving.
Eventually, I made the heartbreaking choice to cut ties. I couldn’t let her hurt me anymore. She’s still alive, still drowning in alcohol, and I live with the constant fear of that phone call telling me she’s gone.
Every day, I remind myself of this truth:
- I didn’t deserve it.
- It wasn’t my fault.
- I was brave.
- I am strong.
To anyone else who grew up in a home like mine: I see you. I feel your pain. And you are not alone. 🖤
