The start of my life was happy. I was brought up in what some might consider a privileged way – I went to boarding school and even had a pony. But when I was twelve, that was all taken away from me. My dad was convicted of fraud and sent to prison, and the rest of the family – my mother, my three siblings and I – were made homeless. That was the start of the dysfunctionality in my life.
We were housed by the Housing Association in a local pub until we found a council house, but even with a roof over our heads things continued to deteriorate. My mum started drinking because she couldn’t cope and then dating a younger man who sexually abused me. Meanwhile, I’d been taken out of boarding school and sent to a nearby state school, where I got bullied relentlessly. My dad’s crime had unsurprisingly caused a stir in the local papers, which quickly ended any hope I had of having a fresh start.
In recruitment, drinking at lunchtime was the norm, but I would drink at lunchtime and continue to drink all afternoon.
By drinking and smoking, I eventually earned my place in the ‘party crowd’ at school, and while I’d always be the last one up drinking after a heavy night, nobody ever saw it as a problem. It carried on like that through school and university.
After leaving university, I managed to hold down work with some recruitment agencies in London. Yet again, I found myself in a setting where my excessive drinking mostly went unnoticed. In recruitment, drinking at lunchtime was the norm, but I would drink at lunchtime and continue to drink all afternoon.
I spent some time in rehab, but I was drinking again as soon as I got out. That’s how it was throughout most of my adulthood: periods of drinking and sobriety. I just always managed to give the appearance of someone who was okay.
I had to leave the family home and start living in my car.
The longest time I was sober was when I got pregnant with my first son – that was a wonderful time in my life. But my second I carried to full-term, and he was stillborn. That was one of the hardest things I have gone through. I was devastated.
On what would have been my son’s first birthday, I started drinking again. It wasn’t long before I was using cocaine, too, followed by crack and heroin. My family washed their hands of me at that point. Nobody wanted to know me. I had to leave the family home and start living in my car. Things almost reached breaking point when I caught pneumonia and was taken to the hospital – all of my organs failed, and they put me in an induced coma. Nevertheless, within a few weeks of leaving hospital, I was drinking, smoking crack cocaine, injecting heroin, stealing, and using counterfeit money. The only thing I didn’t do was sell my body – probably because I was in no fit state to.
I was sleeping rough wherever I could until someone helped me secure a five-night stay in a community house, where I had an interview for longer-term residence in a hostel. Luckily for me, it was snowing, which meant I could stay in the house until I was relocated. Otherwise I’d have been back on the streets.
In the dry house, I was finally able to get some clarity and perspective, and I had a conversation with my key worker there that changed my life.
In the hostel, everyone was allowed to keep drinking and taking drugs, and while I wanted nothing more than to be reunited with my son, the environment made it incredibly difficult to get sober. In the end, I spoke to my key-worker who helped me move into a dry house where drugs and alcohol were prohibited.
In the dry house, finally I got some clarity and perspective, and I had a conversation with my key-worker that changed my life. They opened up to me about their past struggles with addiction, giving me the strength to persevere with my recovery and hope that I might one day see my son again.
I haven’t taken drugs for over two years since then, and I haven’t drunk for over a year and a half. While I’ve gotten to this stage before, this time is different. Previously I would reward myself with a drink after long stints of sobriety, but now I have no desire for that chaos to return.
I have a much clearer understanding of myself now, too. And thankfully, I have enough people around me I can talk to if I’m having a bad day. One of the hardest things for me used to be admitting to people that things weren’t okay. Now I live my life like it is entirely open. I have no room for white lies or grey areas. I’m not an angel – I know that. But when anything gives me a reason to feel anxious, I stop and look at it and resolve it straight away. Mental health issues, depression, anxiety; I know I can live with them and lead a normal life, so long as I’m not suppressing my emotions and letting them build up.
I’ve still got a long way to go to make amends with the rest of my family, but I’m building bridges every day.
Best of all, I have my son back. I feel so unbelievably lucky that I’m able to take him to school every day, pick him up in the evening, and brush his teeth at night – it’s the small, mundane things that feel so special. When I take him to football and stand for two hours in the freezing cold, I’m smiling inside because I feel grateful to be there. The need and want for material possessions, the things that used to make me feel validated – the cars, the house, the money – has all disappeared. All I need is for my son to say I love you and kiss me goodnight.
I know my son is much happier, too. His teachers have told me they can tell the difference. And during lockdown, we have got to spend lots of quality time together. It’s been magical. After two long, hard years apart, I get to feel a little bit like we’re making up for lost time.
I have still got a long way to go to make amends with the rest of my family, but I’m building bridges every day. I used to pester people with apologies and expect everything to go back to normal straight away. Now I appreciate the need to take things slowly, and I’m content with that. I talk to my sister all the time, and my mum and I are okay. Everyone’s in a place that’s okay, and that’s okay for now.
So long as these issues are still stigmatised, so many people – especially women and mothers – will continue to lose out on the help and support they so desperately need.
People think mothers going through addiction don’t care about their children – that they’ve chosen their addiction over their kids – but they don’t realise that some mothers don’t know their rights: they don’t know there is a way out, and because they don’t know how to get the right kind of support, they give up hope. I was lucky. I was able to take power from the people around me and keep fighting for my son. But I’ve met plenty of mothers who aren’t as fortunate. When you’re homeless and at rock bottom, it seems like too much of a mountain to climb alone. It’s far easier to get that next fix and live in oblivion rather than reality.
I now work as a Peer Mentor for The Nelson Trust and Turning Point, where I hope I can do for others even some of what my key worker did for me. My future dream is to improve access to substance misuse services in towns like Marlborough, where I’m from, where because it’s a privileged area, social issues are hidden from view. I believe it would make all the difference if people could find the help they need on their local high street rather than having to travel to other towns on expensive train journeys. As long as these issues are still stigmatised, so many people – especially women and mothers – will continue to lose out on the help and support they desperately need.
People gave up on me being able to carry out my role as a mother. My message is that it’s never too late. Mothers can come out of addiction and go back to being a mother. And for all the children who don’t think their mothers love them, they do – they might just need a little support.