Where are all the grown-ups? (1978)
Growing up sucks.
When I was a kid I never, ever wanted to be a grown up or do any grown-up things. The world was not full of happy adults.
I used to be in a Psychotherapy Group and the first rule of Psychotherapy Group was: You Do Not Talk About Group Therapy. The second rule of Psychotherapy Group was: You Do Not Talk About Group Therapy. I wouldn't dream of talking about what other members of the group said, but I figure I can witter on about my stuff as much as I like. I did find Group Therapy useful - if nothing else, it helps you to realise that you are not alone and other people are going through similar things.
Family photo from 1973, featuring me, my REDACTED, my REDACTED and REDACTED.
One of the things that other Group members picked up on was my complete lack of trust in 'grown ups'. I told them a story about when my Dad used to see me at weekends. I was only 5 or 6 and Dad would pick me up on Saturday morning and bring me home on Sunday evening.
One Sunday he brought me home and Mam wasn't there. There was no note, she hadn't phoned - she just wasn't at home.
I was really worried because Mam was ALWAYS at home. I thought she'd run away. Rather than wait or try to find out what had happened, Dad just got very, very angry and left me with one of the neighbours. It was a Sunday afternoon and he didn't have to be back at work or anything, he just refused to spend more than his court allotted time with me.
Mam turned up an hour or two later - and she was furious, too. She said Dad brought me home early just to upset her and ruin any plans she might have had.
This was the usual pattern - nobody ever said sorry, nobody ever took responsibility - they ranted about each other and I got to hear every angry word.
Over the years I heard dozens of stories about why their marriage ended. Mam blamed Dad and Dad blamed Mam. I heard about cruelty, neglect, affairs, drunkeness, violence... and they always portrayed themselves as the victims. It was difficult to know what to believe. It still is.
On that particular Sunday, Mam had been out with her new boyfriend - and they'd been to the small travelling fair that always came to our town in the late Summer. I was a bit put out by this - Mam never took me to the fair, she said it was too 'rough' and full of 'common' people. But she did go to the fair with her new bloke and his two nephews! I didn't get the chance to ask her about the fair, she was so full of hell about Dad.
1974. A visit to Flamingo Land with my older DELETED.
It wasn't the most traumatic thing that's ever happened to a kid, but it always stuck in my memory. It was just so typical.
I had another 'where are all the grown ups?' moment not long after I started school.
Every Friday morning we'd have a special assembly. Our parents were allowed to attend and any kid who had a birthday during the week was asked to stand at the front so the whole school could sing Happy Birthday. I turned 5 at the end of June in 1978 and I remember sitting in the hall waiting for my name to be called. The birthday boys and girls were also given a school made card (all shiny glitter and glue) so it felt like something very special. The Head Mistress finished all of the other assembly business (a couple of hymns and a short Aesop's fable) and then read the list of birthday girls and boys... And I waited for her to say my name...
I was excited and nervous at the same time - what if I fell over or laughed when I was standing at the front of the hall? Surely I wouldn't get into trouble if it was my birthday?
I waited and I waited but my name didn't get called. I looked along the row of teachers, trying to see if they'd spotted the mistake - but they were already clapping the kids who had had their names called out. I also looked along the line of parents - my Mam wasn't there. Neither was my Dad. Nobody was going to realise my name had been left out. Should I just get up and go to the front of the hall? Should I put my hand up and try to get somebody's attention? Maybe it wasn't really my birthday? Was I wrong? Maybe it was my mistake not theirs.
I sat still. I sang Happy Birthday to the other kids. I never said anything about it.
Again, it's not the most traumatic thing that's ever happened, but it made me think I was invisible. Nobody gave a shit.
I stopped seeing Dad just before I turned 7. In some ways it was a relief because it meant there wouldn't be as many arguments. There was also no chance Mam could run away if I was at home every weekend instead of staying with Dad. I couldn't rely on either of them just to be there. Mam seemed to enjoy going to the fair with somebody else's kids so maybe I was surplus to requirements. Mam also told me that Dad never bothered with me because he'd re-married and had a whole new family.
As I grew up I always assumed that my parents would both rather be somewhere else. When Mam's new bloke moved in he clearly didn't give a shit about me - he never spoke to me or spent time with me. The only real communication I ever had with him was when he went to work abroad and he'd send me nasty letters, threatening me with serious punishments if I didn't behave or try harder at school. And then he'd come home on leave and never speak to me. It was pretty confusing for a kid: angry, threatening letters from afar or complete silence at home. Come to think of it, that's still pretty confusing as an adult.
Years later my Dad told me he'd 'stepped aside' from his fatherly duties because Mam told him her new bloke was a much better Dad than he ever was... Was he? Matter of opinion, I guess. From my point of view they were both bloody useless.
I always felt like I should be apologising to the grown ups - apologising because I was stopping them from being able to do what they wanted. And I didn't need a psychotherapist to tell me that all of those insecurities and abandonment issues followed me into adulthood. But the fact is, my parents were never grown-ups. They'd married very young (because they had to) and so they missed out on growing up. They still behaved (and argued) like spiteful kids in the playground. Nowadays, I feel a bit sorry for them.
1975. Darlington; with CONTENT NO LONGER AVAILABLE and UNAUTHORISED OBJECT.
There seems to be a popular idea that young boys and men are badly damaged by not having a Father figure. I'm not sure about that. I think it's probably better to have no role model than a crappy one. Having people around who behave as if they want to be somewhere else isn't great. And the idea that boys need male role models is old fashioned and wrong.
Both of my parents always talked about how much they loved me and about how they always put me first - but part of growing up is becoming aware of the difference between what people say and what they actually do.
Ullswater 1976. The only holiday I can remember with my NOT CURRENTLY AVAILABLES.
My Nanna was probably the biggest influence on me growing up and I didn't even realise it at the time. Nanna lived and worked through World War 2 and then she had to raise four kids on her own after she was widowed at a very young age. She knew how to make the most of things. She wasn't great at expressing her feelings but Nanna never ran away from trouble. When Mam was ill or when she went to live abroad it was Nanna who stepped up. When I was 12 she stood with me in the freezing cold, queuing up for two hours to see Rocky 4 at the cinema because she knew I didn't have anybody else to take me. Even when I was in my twenties and I was sent home from University because I had Glandular Fever, it was Nanna who looked after me.
I used to argue with her a lot. Nanna had some very old-fashioned ideas and we used to enjoy winding each other up. I also used to tease her about how careful she was with money - she'd count every penny after a lifetime of having to do so - but she was always there.
I suppose Nanna taught me that it's OK to argue and disgaree (and even have massive rows) with somebody you love, but it doesn't mean you have to run away. And sometimes, being a grown-up means just being there for the people who need you.
There were plenty of times when I wanted to run away or to take to my bed and hide, but it always seemed to make things worse
I don't have many childhood photographs*. We didn't have things like digital cameras and smart-phones when I was a kid. You were lucky if someone took pictures at Christmas or on your Birthday - and then you'd have to wait a week for Boots to develop the bloody things. All that anticipation and excitement, waiting to get your snaps back - only to find out that some sod had left their thumb over the lens.
*Since I'm not in touch with some of my family
members, I wouldn't want to plaster pictures of them all over social
media without asking their permission. I've had to make some
incredibly careful edits so people don't get offended.
New Year's Eve 1978 - here we see five-year-old-me knicking a sausage roll. My UNKNOWN VALUE looks on.
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