old and worn and waiting…1989

I had never seen a sunrise until I spent the two months in hospital prior to having my baby girl. And because I hardly ever slept, I was able to witness my first sunrise from the top storey window of the hospital. It was beautiful. I had a lovely nurse who spent hours talking with me throughout the night. I didn’t really notice then, how nice she really was. As always, I just believed she was doing nothing more than her job.

Thankyou nice nurse lady. Thankyou for your letters, your conversations and especially your kindness 🙂

I was a good Mum. For someone so young, it came quite naturally. She was my everything. And all I wanted to do was protect her and love her and give her the very best. Of me and what the world had to offer.

Hindsight: That’s a hard thing to do when you believe you’re not worth shit and the world is a savagely brutal place…especially for a girl.

The beatings from her father increased in ferocity and frequency once she had exited the womb. And I knew he was slowly losing his mind. He would talk about the cracks in the pavement talking to him. The birds in the tree telling him he had only two choices. If the left flew away. I loved him. If the right flew away I didn’t and he would have to hurt us. I tried reasoning with him, a ploy of mine that had helped me survive many sticky situations. But this time, it just agitated him and fuelled the frenzy. He would climb through my window at night while we were sleeping and I’d wake to him standing over my bed or even worse, over my girls cot. Just standing there mumbling to himself. That was followed my hours of talking him down, out of the room, out of the house, out of the street…before my girl was due to wake again…or before my mother or brother woke up.

I separated from him after he became openly brazen about twacking me in public or in my home, with my mother in the next room; or  while I was holding onto my girl. I left because I didn’t want her to get hurt. I didn’t want his obsessiveness to one day turn into violence towards her…if he decided she had done some ‘in his head’, wrong doing, towards him.

Separating wasn’t easy. I left behind my dream of everything turning out ‘picket fency’. I left behind the father that I wanted my girl to have. I hadn’t had one and I thought she should. Oh well.

Once we separated, the stalking began. Not just the late night, through the window, stand over the bed looking insane, type visits. No…he’d show up in the supermarket, one aisle over…just watching. He made friends with the adjacent neighbour, by chance, he had a pool table in his garage and he’d go play pool with him. Even though this dude was like 50 years his senior!. He showed up in the bank, next door to a friends, at the café…and just watch. He rattled my nerves. One day we were waiting in line at the bank; my baby girl was in her push chair asleep. He showed up and started walking up and down the waiting queue, laughing at me…getting up into my face, then backing off…raising his hand…then backing off. I was trying very hard to hold it together and not cry. I moved my girl closer to me and carried on waiting. We finally got to the top of the queue and while I was filling in the little withdrawal slip, he took her out of the push chair and walked off with her. I cried and tried talking him round; to give her back and all the while she was screaming. He just laughed. In the end we were half way down the road, in town, with people all around, and no one saying or doing anything…and the lady from the bank came sprinting out…What a wonder woman she was. She stopped him outside of the pub and firmly insisted that he hand over the baby. He reluctantly did. She told him that was no way to treat his child or the mother of his child…how did she know? Clever lady. Then she took us back to the bank, handed my girl back and made sure we were alright. She wiped my tears and told me to go home.

Thankyou nice bank lady! Thankyou for caring…thankyou for noticing and doing something! 🙂

I had become increasingly afraid and nervous. I was wary of where we went and who was there. Where my girl was and who was around her. I believed she was safer with my mother and brother. And with me not around. If I was around her, he was somewhere around, her. If I wasn’t around her, he was around me, not her. That was my 16-17 year old reasoning anyway. There wasn’t any type of womans help centre for peeps that were being stalked. Not that I knew of anyway. And the town that we lived in was full of people who had been there forever, were in bred to the hilt, and liked things to remain in-house and tidy looking…if you get my drift. There was no such thing as women getting hidings…and if they did, it was probably their own fault.

Then, in amongst all this fluffy spongy loveliness…I found a lump in my breast. I probably would have ignored it. But my ‘she has 4+ kids and is 28-ish’ friend; she died of a cancer that started with a tiny lump in her breast; that she ignored; that got bigger; that the doctor said was normal; that got bigger; that completely consumed her body. And she died. So I wasn’t going to ignore it.

I went to the doctors. They said it was normal. But sent me to have it checked at the hospital. There was no communication between the lowly patient and the opulent doctors. They poked and prodded, inserted needles and then sent me away. They sent me an appointment card in the mail which said I was scheduled for surgery, soon. 4 weeks or so I think it was. I was scared. And didn’t know what to say or ask. The Plunket Nurse said I would have to wean my girl off the boob and put her on the bottle. I cried.

I don’t remember having the lump removed; just another part of my life that I have forcibly forgotten. But I remember having a tube coming out from my breast for weeks…some type of drainage thing I think. I couldn’t pick my girl up properly, because it hurt. I ended up going to a friend’s place to stay for 2 weeks…to heal up and recover. I drank. Lots. And I missed my girl. The lump wasn’t cancerous. They sent me the letter that said so, weeks later.

Her father moved into the house over the road from my friend. Surprise surprise. Stalking bastard. Which meant though, that he wasn’t at the house climbing through the windows and standing over the cot. So I put up with him being there.

I found a new boyfriend. More accurately he found me. Another asshole. I thought he would be able to protect me. Protect us. But he came with his own baggage…but doesn’t everyone I suppose…hmmm.

After the first week away, I received a letter in the mail, at my friend’s house. It was a notice from the court, that my mother had applied for custody of my baby girl. I didn’t understand…so I rang her just to clarify. She said she heard I was drinking again and had a new boyfriend and that was no way to act and I obviously couldn’t look after my baby girl and she was better off with her and when I got myself together and maybe went back to church because I had backsliden and was going to hell now and things weren’t looking too good for me and yeah when I could prove to be responsible I could come back. REALLY?

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so betrayed and devastated and violently angry, in my entire life.

Now, in hindsight, I get my mother was trying to do the right thing, well what she thought was the right thing, by her grandchild. And having grandbabies of my own now, I completely get that. But there is something completely gutt wrenching and helpless and hurtful and screamingly painful, about having your child, your precious baby, who you love and would lay your life down for…taken from you.

I actively forgot this part of my life, for years. Only recently did I remember it. And I cried. Again.

I went to see my mother that same day. It was the first time I had ever seen red. Literally. I demanded she give my baby girl back. She wouldn’t and rang the police instead. I smashed up her entire kitchen, and would probably have smashed her as well…but the police came and removed me. And I had to go. I was gutted.

I hated her for this.

And I drank. And I drugged. And I fucked. And I hated. More.

We went to court. I didn’t understand any of it. She did. And she told them what a horrible person I was. Unfit. They weren’t convinced. She didn’t get custody, but joint guardianship. I hated her again. I didn’t want to be controlled by her and this was just a means of control in my eyes. But I didn’t do what she wanted me too. In some ways it seemed like a relief…baby girls father would stay away from her completely now. And he did.

I moved away to a new town, with the new boyfriend and all his baggage. Turns out he was a drug addict..Yah! But we blended for awhile…and then yes, I became pregnant again. I found out when I went to the women’s clinic to get a contraceptive. Doh.

Okay, so 17…pregnant again…to a different asshole…in a strange town…without my first baby girl…catching a bus to see her every weekend…on $125.00 per week…what am I going to do now? I arranged to meet his parents, they had offered to take this baby. I didn’t tell anyone else what was happening. We travelled down south to meet the prospective adoptee’s slash in-laws.

I decided to have abortion. I knew I’d want to keep this bubby if I saw it and with all the aforementioned reasons running around in my little head I figured at least this way the only person that was going to suffer for this decision, was me. And add that to the list I figured. My unborn bubby would go back to the place she started…with her tipuna, her maker. I believed that definitely, even way back then. And I still do.

So I met the family, then the counsellor, then the psychologist, then rang my mother and told her…she called me a murderer…and then an appointment was made for the abortion.

I travelled alone, on the bus, 3 hours to the nearest clinic. I stayed the night in the local Women’s Refuge as I didn’t have money for a hotel or any other type of accommodation. It was cold and it was lonely.

“You made your bed”…

I was starting to have doubts and was trying to imagine that I could do it all again, and have two children by myself and everything would be alright. I met an Iranian woman whilst in the Women’s Refuge that night. She had a little girl with her, she was about 4 or 5 years old. And she was pregnant with her second. She said it was a girl. She asked where I was from and why I was here. I told her.

She got this look in her eye…you know that look of, ‘now listen to me please…I know you won’t…but please listen…learn…hear me…remember’. I heard her. She had been brought over from Iran, by friends I think? She had been beaten to within inches of her miserable existence…she wasn’t allowed to go anywhere…her body was not her own…and she didn’t want that for her daughters…and it would be their existence…because that’s what it was for a female in her world…she had got out…but she would have had an abortion if she was able to…but now she was alone…running away…to find a better place to be…for her and her daughter and daughter to be…she had no money…no family…just scars and two baby girls.

Oh hell.

Where ever you are beautiful Iranian woman with your baby girl and unborn baby girl…Thankyou. Thankyou for sharing your pain and your story and your love with me. Thankyou for taking the time out of your fucked up existence to enquire on my life. Thankyou for being so kind. I love you for that. I hope you found the happiness and peace and love that you wanted for you and for your babies. I hope you are well. Thankyou for sharing your strength with me xoxo

I caught a taxi to the hospital. Sat in the waiting room. Filled out the forms. Put on the white gown. Sat in the bed. Spread my legs for the internal. Filled out more forms. Looked at the ceiling and then the walls as they wheeled me to the room next door to the surgical room. I heard the lady’s heart beat through the monitor while they performed the abortion. I cried in that little room by myself. I held onto my Ventolin inhaler, waiting. I got rolled in. A needle stuck into my wrist. A gas mask stuck over me and told to count backwards from 10. I had big tears. Big big tears and I couldn’t see the man properly. But I counted. And when I woke up. She was gone. My second baby girl was gone. And I cried.

~I named her. I remember her. I call her, a her, because I like to believe that’s who she is. A beautiful little girl, now in a beautiful place with her tipuna~

The nurse asked me why I was crying, with that ‘you made your bed, now lie in it’, tone to her voice. I didn’t answer and she didn’t ask again. She turned the radio on for me and left. “Like a bird on a wire” by The Neville Brothers, was playing. And I wailed…again.

The boyfriend came and got me. He was out of it. His mother was quiet. And I didn’t care.

I remember that everything looked old…really really old, like one of those old brown photographs. I felt old and worn and tired.

I was allowed to go home to my mothers and to my baby girl, so I did. My baby girl had been crying for me since my mother had taken guardianship of her. My mother had worn herself out and wanted me to take over again. So I did.

Then the nightmares of shredded babies started. And I couldn’t sleep…even more than normal. And apparently I should’ve gone back to Jesus and everything would be alright again. In what universe was it alright to begin with, I thought.

And then I got an STD. I think they call them STI’s or something now. But apparently my wonderful boyfriend had been screwing everything he could get his dick out for. Yah! It wasn’t one I could get rid of and could lead to cancer if unchecked. Which meant regular smear tests. More opening my legs to someone I didn’t want to for more invasive manoeuvres that I didn’t want.

And then the cunty pedo returned to our town. And I was scared again.

I dumped the loser boyfriend…finally. And I decided to kill myself. It seemed like the logical next step.

I got insurance. I practiced cutting myself. I made out a Will with a lawyer. It specified that my baby girl was not to go to her father because he was unsafe and just an all round fucked up shit head. Just in more lawyer-ish language.

It seems like such a selfish thing, now. But in my mind, I was no good. And no good thing followed me around like a crusty fart. I didn’t want my baby girl to suffer for who and what I was. I believed I was a bad mother now. A bad person.

I got a letter in the mail to say that my Will was prepared but because I was only 17 it would not be a legally binding document till I turned 18. When I did turn 18 I was to come in and sign it. I had two weeks to wait.

So I waited. And I decided to pray…to whoever was listening.

And I waited.

Love and light and goodness and peace, to me, as I unfold, some more xxooxxoo

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7 thoughts on “old and worn and waiting…1989

  1. This is too much to handle right now because I am just going to sleep, but tomorrow I will read it again. I might not reply but I might write something. I think I am going to like you.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. It looks like we have a lot in common. I also had a small child when I got pregnant again. I also decided to have an abortion. I knew I couldn’t take care of another baby. At times, I’ve regretted it, but I know it was the best thing for me. And I’m so glad that I had access to a clinic — it’s not like that anymore in the U.S. Clinics are being closed left and right because of the religious beliefs of the politicians now in charge. And social services for abused women have been cut back because of the recession.

    Sound’s like your daughter’s father suffered from schizophrenia. Untreated, it’s a very scary mental illness. You can’t reason with a schizophrenic. But you can’t blame the physical abuse on schizophrenia — abusing women is a learned behavior, either from parents and/or society. I hope your daughter hasn’t inherited this illness, although the 50% of your DNA undoubtedly makes her a very strong woman. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    • yes it does ;( … I realised in later years that it was the best thing for me, as hard as it was. But naming her…and celebrating her, helps me…us. My girls know they have a sister xo. And they don’t do abortions in hospitals here now, same reasons…theres 2 I think, for the whole country!
      Yes, I believe he was diagnosed years later and ended up in an institution for awhile. He’s still untreated, as such. He ‘self medicates’. And yes he learned it. His parents beat the shit out of one another and him and his brother. He’s toned down a lot now, but he’s old and tired. To old and tired for his years.
      My girl, well she has her struggles, and some of it may be genetics…but your right, her strength and resilience is amazing and I like to think I had a little sumthin sumthin to do with that 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

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