Amelia's story Read Online Free PDF Page B

from their overdose and had been discharged by the psychiatric consultant, who deemed them fit once more to be capable parents. The Social Services dep artment had an urgent meeting following receipt of the health service ’ s psychiatric reports on them both. They were no longer a danger to themselves or the ir children. All governing bodies were convinced and in complete agreement that their children could now be returned home once more.

Sounds surreal , but this was the 1970 s and things were dealt with far differently than they are today. We were assigned a Social Worker , who looked in on us from time to time. I recall her visits very clearly . O n the morning of her visit , M other would be up and out of bed, cooking breakfast, and setting the table. W e were all dressed in our Sunday best, and because mother was happy we children were happy (and she knew then that all would be well).

The Social Worker would arrive on time , and M other would greet her at the door presenting the perfect family image . T he house was spotless , as were us children, and we played happily together, the perfect family picture. Mother always prepped us before the Social Worker arrived , warning us that if we were naughty while she was t here that we would all be taken away, and we would never be allowed home again. This would put the fear of God into us and was enough to ensure that we were on our best behaviour. Our mother al ways led us to believe that Social Workers were interfering busybodies who had no business calling on her all the time.

On the surface we looked like most families , and t he Social Worker would be happy. S he would be armed with her black clipboard , all the while writing away as she was talking to our mother , ticking her boxes and satisfying herself that all was well. She would finish her tea , then leave until her next visit. As s oon a s she left, M other would almost immediately revert to her harshness . We were instantly ordered to change out of our Sunday best and put our old playing clothes back on. T he shouting and stressing would start soon after. We were ordered to go outside the front of the house to play so she could have peace and quiet. T ranslated , this usually meant she needed a drink or three. Eventually when we were allowed back in to the house , we could tell our mother was different— s he slurred her words and stumble d around the house.

The arguments had become more frequent, more frightening, and M ot her became terribly erratic. She would fly into an uncontrollable rage more often than not, and her target was nearly always me. She lash ed out at me with anything she held in her hands at that moment— a rolling pin, a saucep an, even a dog chain. She turn ed into a mad woman, sometimes calling me all the ugly names she c ould muster from within herself and with the front door wide open for all to hear. T hen she would throw me outside.

Tears fell down my face in bucket loads , and I would bare ly be able to breath e through my crying. I felt humiliated and embarrassed and prayed the ground would just open up and swallow me. This would always be justified one way or another, and if she felt a shadow of guilt she punish ed me for making her feel bad . I was to blame for her miserable l ife as far as she was concerned, and I was reminded of this on an almost daily basis.
     
    She would screech at me , “ I t’s your fault your real father left us. Y ou were to o demanding and you were a naughty child.” I was two years old when he left , so how could any of this be my fault? The more she blamed me , the more I believed her. She would shout, “ H e hated you , Amelia. H e tried to drown you in the bath when you were two years old . ” I would cry back , “ Y ou ’ r e lying, you ’ r e lying , stop it ! ” Then I would feel the force of her hand clip my cheekbones; the sting would be felt for hours later. I spent the whole of my life believing my father tried to kill me by