Listen to thisWhen I was 2 weeks old, you had me fostered. The doctors didn’t discover I had cerebral palsy until I was 18 months old, so I know that my disability isn’t the reason why you didn’t want to keep me.
You’d visit me in the children's home every 2 or 3 weeks. You didn’t want me to be adopted because you still wanted some hold over me. You couldn’t let go totally.
When I was four I went to live with foster parents. You continued to see me, but they didn’t like it. I remember my 12th birthday just before Christmas. It was raining, cold and dark. You came round with some presents, but my foster parents wouldn’t let you in. “We’re fed up with her disrupting your life,” they said to me. You had to sit on the step in the rain. I felt numb, not knowing what to think.
After that, you’d come to see me at school. I’d ask you about my father, but you evaded all my questions. “That’s in the past,” you’d say. It makes me think I may be the result of a one night stand.
I know you couldn’t handle the stigma of being an unmarried Mum in the Sixties, but I can’t believe anyone becomes pregnant by mistake. It makes me angry that you didn’t take responsibility for me.
Shortly afterwards, you married, became pregnant – and stopped coming. I haven’t seen you since, although you write to me occasionally, usually on my birthday.
I was never treated the same as my foster sister or brother. One Christmas my foster sister was given an ankle-length coat. My present was an alarm clock. I’d think “Why don’t I have so much?
I think my foster parents wanted me initially. They felt the way one does with a puppy or a kitten – they’re cute for a while, but you have to look after them for a long time. Because of my disability, they were over-protective. I wasn’t allowed to do even simple tasks, like make a cup of tea or go shopping. “Can I join the Brownies?” I asked once. “No. you can’t, was their reaction. “You'll be knocked over.”
When I was 14, I boarded the community bus. But instead of taking me home as usual, it took me to a home for “maladjusted children”. I spent the next two years there. No one had told me I was going, and I felt betrayed. When I asked why I was there, they said, “There’s nowhere else to put you.”
It was awful – disturbed teenagers would frequently slit their wrists. They’d drink and swear, and throw eggs and rice pudding at me. I’d go to school in a right mess. I hated it so much and, to escape, I spent the next two years in a college especially designed for people with cerebral palsy. There I learnt to become independent.
By then I was 18 and had to leave. I didn’t belong anywhere. I knew nothing about my father – what kind of man he was, what he looked like, who my relations were. All my life I have anguished over these questions. This time it reached crisis point.
I moved to Chichester for a residential course. I was addicted to the telephone. I’d ring up all sorts of people even though I didn’t know them very well, and I’d phone the Samaritans constantly. I needed to communicate, but I didn’t have anyone to talk to. I couldn't phone you, Mum – I felt I didn’t know you.
No one knew how to respond to me, because I was clearly hysterical. I ended up in a psychiatric hospital for two weeks, which made everything worse. It was a horrible, unclean place and no one seemed interested in why I was behaving the way I was. Two weeks turned into months. Finally, they told me they could do nothing for me.
My clothes were put in a black bin liner and I left, with nowhere to go. I put my name on the housing list in the hope I would find some accommodation, but I felt rootless and isolated. In desperation, I took an overdose. I can remember repeating. “I just want to die.' They rushed me to hospital. I stayed there for several months and, slowly, I started to improve. When I was discharged. I found a housing association flat. I’m finally getting my act together – but there’s no one to tell me I’m doing well.
I'll always regret not knowing my father, and having no experience of family life. I don’t have a boyfriend. You have to give so much of yourself and I’ve been too damaged. If someone comes up to me, it takes all my effort to shake hands.
I wish I could tell you, Mum, how much you have missed. To have a child, and bring it up, is the most important thing in life. You missed out on me growing up – and that makes me angry. I’d like to see you again. In the past, I made an effort. At one point you were living quite near to me. I gave you my address and phone number, but you never came.
I've given you plenty of chances, but there comes a point when I can’t do any more. But I do know one thing – if I ever have a child, I won’t treat it as I’ve been treated.
Today, I am living in my own flat in London and studying publishing at university.
