My family are all alive – but I’m still an orphan

Standing outside my mother’s flat, I waited to see if she’d answer the door.

Less than 24 hours earlier, I’d run away from her and from this place – a house that was as much a home to me as a jail cell is to a prisoner – but now, I was back, though not by choice.

I was technically still a minor, so, when my aunt refused to take me in, the police had no choice but to bring me ‘home’.

Luckily for me, no one was in.

‘Well, I’m going then,’ I said to the police officer, and before he even had a chance to respond, I turned and left as fast as I could.

That was over 30 years ago and I’ve never gone back to my ‘family’ since.

Even though most of them are still alive, I consider myself an orphan because it’s far better than the alternative – returning to that toxic and abusive environment.

The abuse began almost immediately, but I don’t recall having any real understanding of it until I was a toddler.

If she wasn’t being cold and absent, she’d unleash savage beatings on me.

The only respite I ever seemed to get was when my dad came to visit. He’d play this game with me where he’d put a candle under his chin and pull funny faces.

It was silly, but in those moments, I could actually feel like a child.

Sadly, it never lasted long enough as Dad lived elsewhere and when he died when I was eight, it was like that little bit of safety was gone forever.

I still remember when my mother broke the news. Sitting on our living room floor, a bowl of porridge in front of me, she entered the room with a letter in her hand and just said: ‘Your father’s dead.’ Then she packed me off to school as if nothing had happened.

I spent that day feeling and being sick from grief and fear.

Unsurprisingly, the constant violence worsened. 

My mother would whip the back of my legs with a plastic belt until I bled – and on other occasions, broke bones and fractured my skull.

Then, as I entered my teens, the sexual abuse started.

She refused to let me bathe myself and always took the opportunity to touch me in ways no parent should.

I’d freeze, and mentally take myself to any other place or think of stories like The Chronicles of Narnia – something I now know is called dissociation and a common coping mechanism among survivors of childhood sexual abuse.

This Is Not Right

On November 25, 2024 Metro launched This Is Not Right, a year-long campaign to address the relentless epidemic of violence against women.

With the help of our partners at Women’s Aid, This Is Not Right aims to shine a light on the sheer scale of this national emergency.

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• Remembering the women killed by men in 2024

What’s worse, she’d often stage and manufacture things just so she had an excuse to abuse me.

It would be silly things, like hiding packets of biscuits, then asking why I’d eaten them. When I said I hadn’t, I’d be beaten for lying. Then when I inevitably ‘confessed’ just to stop the beating, I’d be beaten again for not telling the truth in the first place.

Basically, it didn’t matter what I did or said, she was going to hurt me one way or another.

I’d told myself that if she hadn’t killed me by the time I turned 16 that I’d run away. And that’s exactly what happened.

Eventually I left with just two belongings for my new life: a white blazer and my GCSE art portfolio – I didn’t want anything else with me, not clothes, not a teddy or even a toothbrush, as it all had a connection to her – and headed to where my aunt lived.

I thought, as I was her sole-surviving blood relative, she’d be happy to see me and to take me in but she couldn’t have been less interested. She wouldn’t even come to the police station.

That’s how I ended up back at my mother’s flat and leaving for the second time in 24 hours. 

From then on I had to fight tooth and nail for everything.

This was followed by a house share where the male tenants used to coerce me and the other sole female tenant to have sex in exchange for a bed at night. 

Unfortunately, I also found myself in an abusive relationship between my late teens and mid-20s. I had two children in that time and my focus switched to preventing abuse from their father.

As far as I was concerned, my children and I were alone in this world and I could only count on myself to get us through.

Thankfully, I always found a way. I obtained a degree, then a Masters and a qualification in interior design. And my abusive ex only has occasional contact with my now-grown-up children so his behaviour is less of a concern.

Would I still give anything for a loving mother, a family to lean on, or a network of aunts, uncles and cousins that make me feel like I have somewhere that I truly belong? Yes.

If you have a family that cares, then you’re lucky. I’ve finally found mine with my children and the friends I’ve made along the way. But there will always be a part of me that grieves for what I missed out on.

There’ll always be a part of me that feels like that abused and abandoned child, running away from the place that I should have been able to call home because I knew that I had no choice but to go it alone.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Ross.Mccafferty@metro.co.uk. 

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