I wrote this becausee I needed to.
There is no titillation, no sexy side, to this - so don't read it if that is what you seek.
I just needed to write it.
My mother
I first met my mother when I was 18.
She was then 33. I am a mathematician but you don't need to be, to do that math.
I was 'given away' at birth: a euphemism, as is so much to do with teenage prgenancy, what leads to it, and its far-reaching effects.
I was lucky: the London boroughs in those days farmed us children 'in care' out to children's homes in leafy suburbs, and I lived a life of idyllic happiness, loved and looked after, cared for, with lots of foster brothers and sisters most of whom remain close friends to this day. I was 'not suitable for adoption' - a consequence, my lovely foster mother once admitted in an unguarded moment, of my oddity: 'eerily still' was her phrase, which sticks with me even now because it does describe the odd quiet introspection or hyperfocus into which I sometimes do fall. Life in the home, for me, was lovely - lively, lots of friends, diverse - and long summers cycling into the countryside, romping in fields, lighting fires in the woods, swimming in rivers and the big pond. In a way I never grew up - I remain the 'tomboy' I then was, and I am lucky that my professional life plays into that and gives me opportunities to get out and about, to explore and go on expeditions and do exciting and novel things with amazing people.
Not all my foster brothers and sisters were so lucky: I, being 'given away' at birth, never experienced the pain of remembering that experience, or of losing my parents. We were a diverse and varied bunch - few like me were permanent so some came and went as their family circumstances changed. One of my foster brothers became a Chief Constable of an English police force - another was imprisoned at 19 for murder. My eery stillness perhaps helped me, because I sort of accepted it - even to the extent of somehow not being able to feel their pain or comprehend the chaos that raged within them.
But I meant to write about my mother, not about me.
I started to think about my mother when I met the man who was to be my husband. Aged 17 when we met, I discovered how it is to be loved for myself, unconditionally, without reservation, and for that love not to be shared between a dozen other foster siblings. I knew my mother had been 15 when she gave birth to me, but nothing else. I also knew that my father was unidentified - one of many possible candidates. I had not thought what those things meant. So I determined, when I turned 18, to exercise my right to find my mother - to let her know that I was ready to make contact - and I did so.
I was not prepared for who I met - nor for the many years since when we have been mother and daughter but in such an odd disjointed way that there has been as much pain and hate in it as love.
I wanted, I think, to find that my mother loved me. She did not. In her eyes, I think I was the final cause of the ruination of her life: my birth, and subsequently being 'taken away' from her the last trigger that sent her over the edge to irredeemable life failure. I suspect she was unfair in that - she was by what accounts I heard a drug-addled exploited wreck before I was even a fertilized egg - but I understand it. I canot bear even to imagine giving away one of my own dearly loved children: and I do understand a little of what it is to feel your mind seem to be about to break - I was lucky enough to have people who loved and cared for me, to bring me through it but she was alone, and in the midst of evil. My meeting her as I did - with a supportive fiancee, a happy fulfilled life, healthy and well - that must have hurt her by the contrast to herself, and I can see that she might have hated what I had and she had not.
We reached an accomodation: she hates me and I hate her. No, all joking(?) aside we have a relationship that is based on birth not nurture - by the time I met her, ironically, when I had just emerged from 'care' she was entered into it and has never left. When I say she is mad as a bat and a bitch to boot, I do so with some affection. We talk, by telephone, most evenings - surreal conversations usually but interspersed with moments of clarity and even affection.
I am not shocked by much on this forum. It can be brutally crude - and genuinely nasty, but I can let that flow past me. But I am shocked - horrified - by how many men ask me if I would like to 'play' underage. For clarity, let me state - I would not. It sickens me - and unlike other perversions that I find not to my taste, there is no mitigation to that sick horror. I am not outraged by it - not angry, or disgusted - I am sickened, to the depths of my soul. The horror at what such exploitation can wreak, the destruction of real lives, the years of ramifications that roll on and on.
My mother might have been a real mother, had someone not done that to her.
There is no titillation, no sexy side, to this - so don't read it if that is what you seek.
I just needed to write it.
My mother
I first met my mother when I was 18.
She was then 33. I am a mathematician but you don't need to be, to do that math.
I was 'given away' at birth: a euphemism, as is so much to do with teenage prgenancy, what leads to it, and its far-reaching effects.
I was lucky: the London boroughs in those days farmed us children 'in care' out to children's homes in leafy suburbs, and I lived a life of idyllic happiness, loved and looked after, cared for, with lots of foster brothers and sisters most of whom remain close friends to this day. I was 'not suitable for adoption' - a consequence, my lovely foster mother once admitted in an unguarded moment, of my oddity: 'eerily still' was her phrase, which sticks with me even now because it does describe the odd quiet introspection or hyperfocus into which I sometimes do fall. Life in the home, for me, was lovely - lively, lots of friends, diverse - and long summers cycling into the countryside, romping in fields, lighting fires in the woods, swimming in rivers and the big pond. In a way I never grew up - I remain the 'tomboy' I then was, and I am lucky that my professional life plays into that and gives me opportunities to get out and about, to explore and go on expeditions and do exciting and novel things with amazing people.
Not all my foster brothers and sisters were so lucky: I, being 'given away' at birth, never experienced the pain of remembering that experience, or of losing my parents. We were a diverse and varied bunch - few like me were permanent so some came and went as their family circumstances changed. One of my foster brothers became a Chief Constable of an English police force - another was imprisoned at 19 for murder. My eery stillness perhaps helped me, because I sort of accepted it - even to the extent of somehow not being able to feel their pain or comprehend the chaos that raged within them.
But I meant to write about my mother, not about me.
I started to think about my mother when I met the man who was to be my husband. Aged 17 when we met, I discovered how it is to be loved for myself, unconditionally, without reservation, and for that love not to be shared between a dozen other foster siblings. I knew my mother had been 15 when she gave birth to me, but nothing else. I also knew that my father was unidentified - one of many possible candidates. I had not thought what those things meant. So I determined, when I turned 18, to exercise my right to find my mother - to let her know that I was ready to make contact - and I did so.
I was not prepared for who I met - nor for the many years since when we have been mother and daughter but in such an odd disjointed way that there has been as much pain and hate in it as love.
I wanted, I think, to find that my mother loved me. She did not. In her eyes, I think I was the final cause of the ruination of her life: my birth, and subsequently being 'taken away' from her the last trigger that sent her over the edge to irredeemable life failure. I suspect she was unfair in that - she was by what accounts I heard a drug-addled exploited wreck before I was even a fertilized egg - but I understand it. I canot bear even to imagine giving away one of my own dearly loved children: and I do understand a little of what it is to feel your mind seem to be about to break - I was lucky enough to have people who loved and cared for me, to bring me through it but she was alone, and in the midst of evil. My meeting her as I did - with a supportive fiancee, a happy fulfilled life, healthy and well - that must have hurt her by the contrast to herself, and I can see that she might have hated what I had and she had not.
We reached an accomodation: she hates me and I hate her. No, all joking(?) aside we have a relationship that is based on birth not nurture - by the time I met her, ironically, when I had just emerged from 'care' she was entered into it and has never left. When I say she is mad as a bat and a bitch to boot, I do so with some affection. We talk, by telephone, most evenings - surreal conversations usually but interspersed with moments of clarity and even affection.
I am not shocked by much on this forum. It can be brutally crude - and genuinely nasty, but I can let that flow past me. But I am shocked - horrified - by how many men ask me if I would like to 'play' underage. For clarity, let me state - I would not. It sickens me - and unlike other perversions that I find not to my taste, there is no mitigation to that sick horror. I am not outraged by it - not angry, or disgusted - I am sickened, to the depths of my soul. The horror at what such exploitation can wreak, the destruction of real lives, the years of ramifications that roll on and on.
My mother might have been a real mother, had someone not done that to her.
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