I am Brit Mum here me roar
Born in Yorkshire, Yes I was.
To a coal mining father and Kiwi mother.
I was raised with loved and kindness.
A family poor in money but rich in love.
Then life changed. I was abused.
Too scared to share or speak out.
Betrayed by a school teacher.
Someone in authority.
I focussed my mind on my education.
My family migrated to New Zealand.
I grew older and was abused again.
This time by a work colleague.
No wonder I ended up confused.
Confused about power and control.
About love and self worth.
Good and Bad.
Being told I was bad. Feeling unclean, dirty, rubbish.
Feeling used and abused.
I soon found myself married to an abusive man.
My confidence dashed, my spirit smashed.
My happiness beaten out of me physically and verbally.
I had an escape. Education, English, Writing.
Studying every day, from morning till night.
Graduating University with high grades.
I finally grew the courage to leave my abuser.
Divorced at twenty two.
I soon fell in love once more.
A kind man. He treated me like a princess.
I could not believe my luck.
After all I was a loser, second hand goods, a bulldog.
That’s what the first husband called me.
This whirlwind romance turned into a second marriage.
But then the abuse began once more.
Isolated and in fear.
I returned to what I knew best.
Education. Studying harder. I gained some perfect scores.
Graduating a qualified Teacher.
Working full time.
But then I became a Mother.
Arguments over work and raising my child.
A controlling mother in law, an abusive husband.
I grew courage and left.
A single Mother at twenty seven.
But I had a purpose.
A child to raise, to love to educate.
We returned to the UK.
Found a home, built a new life.
But my world came crashing down.
Childless at 28.
Falsely accused by family services of being in a mental hospital.
Told I did not have an education.
That I only fed my child cheese.
Accused of being unfit to parent.
Based on lies and the imaginative stories of one social worker.
My child was gone.
I was a mother, fighting for the truth. Fighting every day.
Writing, using my education and knowledge.
Fighting, an unfamiliar court system and Family Services.
I had never been in a psychiatric unit.
I knew how to raise and teach young children.
Yet the stories were so damming and believable.
Not to me but to those in authority.
I fought hard, morning, evening and night.
Writing, arguing, correspondence.
A Mother fighting a grave injustice.
I never stopped.
9 months later the truth was known.
My child was ordered home.
Given money to go to Butlins.
What kind of apology was that?
9 months was stolen!
9 months not knowing.
Adoption was on the cards.
I cried every day.
Christmas was hard.
Mothers Day was harder.
Not being able to celebrate my child’s birthday.
Being treated like a criminal.
Being accused of unspeakable things.
Laying in my child’s bed crying and praying to have her home.
Desperately trying to reveal the truth.
9 months apart when Family Services learned of the mistakes they had made.
I got my child back.
We moved on with our lives.
I had counselling and grew stronger.
Met the man of my dreams. Non absuive, kind, loving. A brilliant husband and step father.
Eventually married a third time but this was different.
I was happy. Free to fly, to reach my dreams.
Instead I collapsed.
Diagnosed with Adrenal Insufficiency Bed and wheelchair bound.
I had my child back but was not well.
The stress had contributed to my Adrenal failure.
I still had a fight to win.
A complaint. A government Investigation into “What went wrong”.
Why a social worker had lied and exaggerated.
Why I had been accused of terrible things, of being in a mental hospital.
I fought for two more years and the truth came out.
Typing from the bed, I fought at all stages.
My arguments hundreds of pages.
More work than a Thesis.
More work than any University degree.
As if I was fighting a huge court case all by myself.
And then it happened.
Family Services admitted a grave injustice.
They said sorry, verbally and in writing.
90 Complaints upheld and proven.
A huge apology.
But no acknowledgement of the effect on my health.
I had my golden ticket.
A letter of apology to my 5 year old child.
How does that help the scars, the pain, the emotional effects?
How does that help pay medical costs?
How does that help with my child’s separation anxiety?
Something she never had before she was wrongly taken away?
and so I am here.
A Mother once more, but a sick Mother. Fighting once more. This time for better medical treatment.
No more abuse, no more teaching, no more courts, just hospitals and waiting times and appointments.
So I blog.
But I am more than someone in bed. I am a blogger, a brilliant blogger, an Award Winning Blogger. I write about lifestyle, family fun, about being mum!
And People read!
I win the Mumpreneur Voice Award.
Me a Mother! A Fighter. A Mumpreneur, A professional blogger, A Britmum.
It feels great. I feel truly blessed.
I have my blog, a wonderful husband and a beautiful child. She is mine and she is mine for good.
The scars are still there.
But I have overcome.
All but my poor health.
And so the fight continues, to stand for what I believe. To try and get well. To get the best medical treatment and have the chance to be well, to raise my child the way I planned before our worlds were torn apart.
I want this chance. This opportunity. To swing in the park, to swim in the sea, to cook for my child and have energy.
It is possible. It is a matter of money.
So I now fight…. fight to get well, to get money to get well and to be the Mother I want to be.
The Brit Mum I am.
I’ll share, I’ll inspire and I’ll blog my hardest as this is the one thing which will help me reach my goal of managed health.
I may have been let down by government and services, but I wont let myself down.
I will take a stand.
Stand as a blogger.
As a Brit Mum
Stand as a Survivor of Abuse.
Stand as a Mother
I will stand and I will Roar
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