Financial abuse
Hopefully this is only a 1 part post. But never say never.
I have spoken on numerous occasions on the “crimes” of black men. Often actual physical crimes such as neglect, rape, and domestic violence.
However this morning I was forced by some introspection to look at the crimes closer to home. I.e. sins of my father. And in the interests of fairness, my mother too.
Remember, I love my dad very deeply and whilst everything he did here was unequivocally wrong and had a deep effect on me, I will not have him labelled as an abusive husband and father. His was a failure to love my mum and I sufficiently enough to give me safety. I also love my mother, and I believe she did everything she could for me growing up.
Context. My dad had 2 sons from a previous relationship, he had 2 sisters and 3 nephews and a niece. All of whom he considered his “Famble” (Creole for family) and a closer relationship to him than my mum (his wife of 31 years and me, his daughter)
As a result I have to say, my father committed various acts of financial transgressions against my mum and I. Thankfully no fraud but let me outline some scenarios that actually happened that really hurt.
1. Within 2 weeks of my birth my dad had to go back to Freetown. A dual mix of his mother, who would pass away within 6 weeks of my birth being very ill, and he had a contract with the university of Sierra Leone to teach there for a minimum of 1 year after he’d gotten his masters. During this time he sent for my 2 cousins, circa 26 and 24 respectively, to come and live with my mum, a new mother who had to use her savings from her maternity to pay (which was crap in 1991???) for these people (who could have just gotten a job) and desperately wanted her sister to come help her. Instead, she got her in-laws who demanded money off her for survival and would “cuss her out” if she refused. My cousin Amira could be very rude. She also had the advantage of going to her uncle to complain to him “about his wife.” There was a general assumption that lasted until my dad passed away that my father’s money belonged to his sisters and their children. Before my 2nd birthday Amira would get too rude, overstay her visa and leave the UK. That’s the only way we could get rid of her, the UK government had to do it because my mum’s cries weren’t enough. My mum wouldn’t speak cordially to her for 25 years. That’s how much she’d hurt her. Allowing your so called loved ones to run roughshod over your wife is not love. Also I don’t care what the culture says, if culture forbids you as an uncle to stand up for your wife then your culture is trash. Eddie, my other cousin who was amiable enough would end up staying in the UK permanently.
2. I need to further outline this point, my dad sent for his two eldest niece and nephew before his own sons during this time. I know that Creole culture means that your sisters children are just as much your responsibility as they are hers (utter bullshit) but even when picking objectively amongst your own children to be reunited with, you never pick a 26 year old over a 9 year old. Never. You always go youngest and most vulnerable child first, so in this case, it would have been my brothers Charlie (9) Leslie (14) then my cousins Adam, Paddy, and then Eddie and Amira because they were old enough to work. Also I know my dad couldn’t have foreseen the war in Sierra Leone that would ravage the country shortly after the British Government changed the visa rules that made it so easy for my 2 eldest cousins to come to the UK but do you know what that is? That, my dears is the law of unintended consequences. The lesson here is don’t do dumb shit and then pray to God to save you (my favourite analogy of standing in the middle of the Sahara desert naked for 20 years and then praying to God you don’t get skin cancer then wrathing at God when you do.) The Cardi B GIF of “WHAT WAS THE REASON??? WHAT WAS THE REASON??? FUCK????” was a whole mood for the scenario. People say hindsight is 20:20. I disagree. Hindsight is 20:20 but so is your vision right now. No one can with a clean heart and an honest conscience tell me that a 9 year old was less deserving to be reunited with his FATHER than a 26 year old was to be reunited with his uncle. As the Gen Z say, “the math ain’t mathing.” This my dears was step 1 in the dumbfuckery that was about to be my childhood and I was only an infant.
3. That leads onto the 90’s when I was a small child living a relatively peaceable existence punctuated only when my dad’s side of the family needed or wanted something. This half life with the sword of Damocles’ over our heads because between 2 sons, 2 sisters, 3 nephews and a niece my dad was financially responsible for 8 people outside his nuclear family. This caused things like my only childhood memories of my father shouting were of him shouting down the phone at one of these 8 people. No savings. That shit would come and haunt us for many years to come and will be discussed in further paragraphs. Inability to financially plan, my parents never did anything nice because their whole financial situation had an unspoken understanding that whenever my dad’s side of the family needed something, that money would be used for that instead. As a result I only ever went on church outings. I went to butlins when I was 8 and the USA to visit my brother when I was 16 and 18. Other than that, despite having a 2 parent working family and a reasonable family income, enough to make us middle class in London, we always carried last. Why? Because my dad was carrying for “team Famble” not “team Smith.”
4. Then we have a turning point in my life, not for my parents, but for me. Let me describe it to you. One day, in 2002 during the summer holidays my dad spoke to his only niece on the phone, she lived in Ghana. It was a nice conversation and no one thought anything of it. I remember it because my dad was having a conversation in Creole, I didn’t know who it was but he wasn’t shouting so I assumed it was a friend, so when he hung up the phone and said it was “your auntie Amira” (as I called my cousin auntie back then due to the 24 year age gap) I took note of the conversation as unusual because he wasn’t shouting. I left it at that. Later on that night, I had gone to bed, and so had my parents when there was a knock on the door. I was quickly bundled out of my bed by my mum and there was a lot of hissing and sharp words. Everyone was pissed. Why? That same cousin my dad had spoken to earlier that day had boarded a flight with her husband, left her 2 older children in Ghana, and had come to the UK, more specifically my dad’s house. Without mentioning a word to her uncle. Oh and she was 8 months pregnant. My parents were pissed that she’d told UK immigration she was staying with them without speaking to them, and my cousin was pissed that they wouldn’t have her long term. My cousin and her husband eventually found a temporary accommodation when she had her baby son Brian. I remember him, he was (and is) a cutie. But that is all context. During their short stay with us my cousin’s husband Guvvie had a chat with my dad. A serious one. Now normally when “big people” are talking in the African tradition you need to make yourself scarce. But because there were 5 people in a flat built for 3 people max and my cousin had had me kicked out of my bedroom, I was given leeway to remain in the living room for this conversation. I still remember the chairs my cousin’s husband and my dad was sitting on when he told my dad this information. (mainly because I rarely saw dad sitting in that position on that particular chair, his body language I realise as an adult, was off) I was only just old enough to understand. This information changed my perception of my brothers and my dad’s family for the next 20 years. So allow me to relay my memory to you. (I’m translating the conversation from Creole, we don’t have all day)
Dad; “How are the boys?” referring to my two brothers.
Guvvie. “they’re doing great, they live with cousin Adam (Amira’s younger brother) “and you know how young men are, you can smell the perfume down the street”
Dad “Why?”
Guvvie “because Leslie loves perfume and he’s always spraying it all over himself and the house.” (Leslie is my eldest brother)
Dad “where is he getting money to buy perfume from?”
Guvvie “Uncle Audu, the average Ghanaian lives of £30 a month. You send £200, he drinks with all the lawyers and doctors sons.”(uncle Audu is my dad’s nickname in the family and my brothers would go on to both become addicts one to just alcohol the other to both alcohol and drugs)
Meanwhile I had no sense of financial security, my brothers, who were both of working age were living independently in a perfumed house with almost 7 times the average income.
It was like a person in the UK living off £14k a month. The main reason this conversation stuck in my head was I too love perfume and at that age I was going on 11 and I imagined often how amazing it would be to live in a house that was perfumed. My dad would relay this conversation to my mum later and my mum used it as a drumbeat for all her conversations regarding my brothers and money for the next 20 years.
5. We’ll skim over the one where my parents paid for a central London flat for a year to please UK immigration to convince them that my elder brothers had a place to stay when the family is reunited. They paid £1,200 a month for a year, whilst paying their own rent. It was financially horrendous.
6. Instead we’ll talk about my aunt. My aunt Prisicilla’s arrival in the UK in 2006 was another watershed moment and if there needed to be one, the final nail in the coffin of my childhood. Let me tell you how it started. My dad’s older sister, Priscilla was retiring, he wanted to do something nice for her so he wanted to bring her to the UK for a holiday. So far, so good. Then she added terms and then she added tax. My aunt had 2 grandchildren via her one son Paddy, she demanded to bring one of these children (then 6 years old) and not the other. This was wrong and unfair, because Patrick had had these 2 children via 2 women and as a result, the 2 girls were only 4 months apart. So you couldn’t logically display preferential treatment of a once-in a lifetime trip to the UK on one child but not the other. But apparently you can. Then the tax. My aunt had been living in the Smith family home since my grandma Annette had died. The other sister, my auntie Annie had passed away in 1994 and it was irrelevant because my grandmother had left the house to my dad. Anyway. You cant get a tourist visa to the UK without proving you own property in your home country, otherwise what is stopping you from overstaying? I can only assume my aunt had sold her share of the Smith family property that my grandma had left her because she demanded to be deeded the family home. My dad said okay, I’m never going to live there anyway, so sure you can have it. So my aunt arrived in the UK. WITH NOT A PENNY TO HER NAME. Not 1. Seriously, we got lost getting to arrivals in Heathrow and the whole trip started sour because she was pissed she’d had to wait with a 6 year old and didn’t have any money for food or drink or any pennies for a phonebooth to call my dad to see where he was. So when I say she didn’t have any money on her the entire trip, know that I am serious. (I found it odd because when my grandma had come to the UK for a similar trip my mum’s older brother alone gave her £200, so she wouldn’t be stranded, in addition to her own money and money her other children gave her.) So it started off sour. Then it got worse. As it happened my dad didn’t have the money to bring his sister over at that time. He took out a £3,000 overdraft to do so. This resulted in my absolute “adultification” and the breakdown of my parents marriage. I became a weapon for both sides. Both sides would confide in me their side of the story and be angry at me if I voiced the other parents side. Again it wasn’t safe to be me. I learnt a lot about politics and soft skills during that time. Most importantly I learnt when to keep my mouth shut. I remember walking into the hallway in my house in Hedge end with my vision blurry because I was in absolute panic that my mum was going to walk out on the marriage. Essentially within 2 weeks my aunt had overstayed her welcome. Dinners became a tense affair, she’d gotten incredibly rude and said some things like “you didn’t make your husband successful, I did” my mum hatched a plan to leave and go and live with my auntie Tina, but I knew if she left, she was never coming back. Not only did she say so, but I could feel it in my bones, I was staring down the barrel of my parents divorce. It was terrifying. Whenever my aunt would be rude to my mum, my dad would take his sisters side. Insensed that she “never liked his family” with a deep inferiority complex because my mum had come from a middle class background and circumstances had meant my dad came from a poor one, at times an abjectly poor one. I remember my mum missing church, she didn’t want to play “the minister’s wife” when this was going down and I don’t blame her. Therefore it doubled down on me to be the Eleanor Roosevelt. Bye bye childhood, I’d make excuses for my mum’s absence. It was keenly felt. When you are a black family in a white neighbourhood, you have intense pressure to be the best. Times that by 5 when you are the child of the local priest. What precipitated this horror? The bloody grandchild that my aunt had insisted on bringing over. The new screw my aunt was twisting into my dad’s skull was that she wanted Anna, to start school in this country. My mum adamantly refused for 2 reasons. 1. That meant that the child would need to do at the bare minimum the academic year in the UK to make sure that her schooling wasn’t disrupted, 2. The truth was that the child was 6 and so would more likely than not it was a ploy to get my dad to be financially responsible for his great niece. 3. Most importantly of all. This child was here on a tourist visa and therefore had NO RECOURSE TO PUBLIC FUNDS.
An unusual phrase, but one that has been burnt into my brain forever and a day when my mum would scream it over and over at me, at my dad, at my aunt. What it means is that the child had no right or access to the NHS or schooling. If God forbid the child was hit by a bus, then an ambulance would be called and a claim would be made under her travel insurance (what travel insurance?) but non existent travel insurance does not cover schooling and the child had no right to it. My dad got one of his congregation who was just about to retire as a headteacher to offer the child a place in their local school despite this. I vividly remember coming home from school one day and the child was putting on her new uniform. It was a red jumper white polo and black skirt. Poor child did nothing to deserve being tossed from here to there I imagine. My mum returned the uniform. That started a war. My mum put her foot down and was on the verge of leaving because she wouldn’t have any part to play in immigration fraud, remember my cousin Amira got legit deported for overstaying her visa in the early 90’s and that was because she had an accident and did serious damage to her hand and stayed in hospital when she should have been flying home. So when she was discharged, she was deported. My mum was having absolutely none of it. She put her foot down, made it abundantly clear to both my dad and his sister that she’d take me as well if this went down and then told this headmistress that Annette couldn’t accept the place. Then made my dad back her up. Was peace brokered? You can bet your fine ass it wasn’t. By the time of October half term life was unbearable, and my aunt decided to raise a little hell. She crossed a line, I had been sent to bed and so had poor Annette, but at 10pm that night my aunt and parents were all shouting at each other, I can’t tell you what was said, but what I can say is that I was woken to be told that Annette and my aunt were leaving with immediate effect for a week at my cousin Eddie’s house in Bournemouth and that I wasn’t coming but I was under no circumstances to answer the door or do anything until my parents return. I remember sleepily walking across the corridor to the bathroom and my aunt was running downstairs because my parents were essentially kicking her out. I said something like “bye, say hi to uncle Eddie for me.” She didn’t answer. I went back to bed and did as I was told. After a week which fortuitously was half term week my cousin so he didn’t have to pay for childcare for his daughter who was around the same age as Annette. When that was over he sent her back. She must have said some nasty things to his wife too because when she returned to us later and we drove all the way to Bournemouth to collect her, his wife wouldn’t get out of the car. She was so pissed. And I liked Sandra and was looking forward to seeing her after an number of years apart. She’d always been kind to me. Under no circumstances was my aunt to return to my cousin. He was married to a white woman and as a result had a much lower tolerance level for African bullshit. She was “anti-anyone-else’s-happiness” and especially “anti-anyone-else’s’-marriage.” She had to go shortly afterwards. I think she left in before November, she was here for 6 weeks rather than 3 months and she saw almost none of England. She’ll come and rear her ugly head later. Maybe I’ll do a post about her alone.
7. Poverty. Lets talk about that. As I said my dad took on a £3,000 overdraft to get his sister here and my mum raised hell for the next 6 weeks. But the financial aftermath of that decision shouldn’t be underestimated. My parents got a joint account because my mum had to bail my dad out. As a result that lead to the closest thing I have ever been to absolute poverty in my life. We had a stringent budget to manage the household finances. I believe it was £100 a week with £30 for food. We had to manage commuting (my mum worked in London and my dad drove for work) and bills within that money. It was tight. I remember going to Sainsbury’s and we’d ration out what we’d buy and we’d make a joke of it, light of it because my parents had reconciled. My dad had apologised because he had no option, he needed the family together for his career, we were his greatest asset and financially he was destitute without us, no way was my mum getting child support out of that man. My mum had accepted it and made a point of moving on. The problem was my aunt and when the problem left, so did the dangerous cloud that could have split up my family.
8. Then we’ll go for the time when my brother drank himself into a coma and as a result my parents ended up buying a house for him for £45,000 to stop him becoming homeless. I contributed £13,000 to make £58,000 property, at the time, one of the peaks of the financial interdependency. But wait I’m getting ahead of myself here!
9. Co dependency- when I was an adolescent my dad became a Methodist minister. We lived in a manse. A house for a minister. This manse was rent free and we rented our home in London. Yes sweetie. My dad got us into serious debt and he was living in a rent free house. What would he have done if he’d had to pay rent???? My parents lived in 2 houses rent free for 10 years whilst renting their home in London. This, should have meant untold wealth and riches for anyone other than my parents. But my parents lived with that sword of Damacles over their heads where anytime there was a need, bye bye any sort of savings. Anyway, when I was 16-17 my mum used some savings they did have to buy a new rental property. It was under my name why? Because I wasn’t working so I wasn’t using my personal allowance for tax purposes so the first £6,300 of rental income was tax free. Then also because I was 16 I was a first time buyer and I was entitled to all sorts of perks. So they used those perks for their business. This house would eventually be the house that I had to buy my ex husband out of when I got divorced. Therefore their little game cost me over £60k+ interest. I hope you are happy, parents.
10. Walton- my eldest nephew was weaponised when my brother made yet another stupid move towards screwing his family over. This one was to move his family to Liberia when he didn’t want to pay his uncle in law back for 1 year’s rent that the man had stumped up when he saw my brother moving from place to place. This caused a culture crisis for the little boy. He’d been raised in Ghana to a Liberian mother and a Sierra Leonean father. As I have said previously, Ghana is a former British colony and Liberia is more Americanised. So liken it to moving from the UK to America. Overwhelming. So he begged to go home, but remember he was a small boy. So my dad with his pride sent him back to Ghana in the care of his aunt and then paid for him to go to boarding school. This is financial abuse because…he couldn’t afford it which meant “holding my mum up” for money whenever the fees came due. Which happened literally until my dad died and my mum said never again. What I mean by “holding my mum up” was pressuring her into paying the fees she didn’t want to because “he’d already promised" and those famous words “I’m an African man” which meant nothing and everything at the same time. Fees of up to £1,200 a term when actually the fees where £500 a term, the aunt was adding “tax.”
Then we get to “subsistence” this was blatant financial abuse, however by whom to whom I am not quite clear, I hope you can help me decipher it. Context, I’d send £100 to my parents every month, split £50 per parent after I moved out. So my dad would take that £50 and give it to the guardians when Walton was back at home, be it with his aunt for half term or with his parents for the summer holidays . He contended that if he didn’t send the £50 a month they wouldn’t feed him. Let’s unpack this.
· You would starve a 12 year old boy because a man in England you have never met hasn’t sent money for you? Burn in hell for all eternity.
· Due to the nature of the holidays Walton was only at home for 1 or two weeks or the whole month of August. That didn’t change how much was sent. £50 was the minimum, and then £100, then £200 as African’s believe that’s the denominations we work in. So logically my nephew would be with his biological aunt for 1 week and she would receive £50 for his upkeep. No child, even in the UK eats £50 in a week. Or even in 2. Now then you factor that in with the fact that the average Ghanaian earns £520 per month and you are sending £50 for food. That is the same as the average UK citizen earns circa £1777 a month and you are sending £200 for a child to eat for a week. Doesn’t make sense, does it?
Let us never forget that at any point if my parents were struggling or if they’d borrowed money off me or if there was something more pressing to pay for it didn’t negate this payment and as a result all hell would break lose when my dad would be challenged on this payment. It was as he put it. “his money, his daughter gave it to him” and it was. I had given it to him but priorities were my mums’ problem. Paying for food, paying for the car or anything else was for my mum to use the money I’d given her. Mum even admitted to it at one point, they were struggling financially, and she said they’d sit at the dinner table and bless God because the money I’d give them once a month.
Then we get the 3 maidens. Lorretta, Grace G and Oredola W. Loretta first shall we? We all know the rudeness she’d pull on me when I lived at home, demanding to speak to her uncle and then when I’d answer the phone she’d hang up. Loretta is a distant cousin of my dad’s but because they live in a village, he tracked her down (because some people are addicted to drama and when the rich teat of my cousins drama was on the wane, he decided to get a fresh hit from a more distant relative) he gave her various bits of money whenever she “wanted to speak to her uncle” For me it was the arrogance of her demand. No manners. Don’t give me “cultural differences” like Sierra Leoneans are some heathen. People know manners and a grown woman knew when she was being rude and was doing it anyway. Then we have the drama around my brother’s ex fiancé’s family that she tracked down as well as finding out that my mum’s older brother was a director in Sierra Leone airport and going to his office. She tracked both these people because they were wealthy and connected to my family and so she deemed it appropriate to ask them for money. Those are her sins, I’m here to talk about my dad’s. Now last year when I was going through my divorce my dad wanted to give her some money. £400. Which is someone’s monthly salary if you are rich, or several months salary if you are poor. I had the money and I didn’t want to give my dad because my parents were being horrendously cruel to me at the time, they owed me several thousand and this would have been a gift not a loan and that would have sent me down the path of being my dad 2.0 and being liable for money whenever my dad promised money he didn’t have to people he’d not been close to for 30 years. Remember Lorretta isn’t that much older than me, so he didn’t know her when he left Freetown in 1989 or 1992 because she’d have been a small child. Now, because I was sticking to my guns my dad raised almighty hell. He ranted and raved to the point where I begged my mum to just give him the money because he was going to make himself sick. I remember looking through my dad’s old Whatsapp messages and last year they turned, I’d still send pictures of flowers and sunsets and landscapes and I’d get messages about “the Loretta issue” he even went as far as to contact my older brother from whom he was estranged from, to send her the money. Then he went outside of the family (for me this was a line way, way, way too far) he went to a family friend who he’d taught, who we owe several thousand dollars because she stumped up for said brothers car and he was supposed to pay her back and never did so my parents are liable for that debt. He went and asked her for the money. She’s young enough to be his daughter and in African tradition “big people” don’t go asking “small ones” for money. If you are asked, you give its as simple as that, which was what made me standing my ground so remarkable. My brother was broke at the time and so was this woman, she has 2 daughters to feed and so couldn’t spare the $500 to give to her old teacher’s distant cousin. It was a madness. Eventually the house that I’d paid for with my divorce got sold and my mum used the sale proceeds to give this woman the £400. It was hell for all involved. All this whilst my parents were treating me badly and I was going through hell at work and a divorce to boot. My mum has come to have an affection for Loretta. I dislike her and immensely resent that my dad would go to such lengths for her but wouldn’t cross the street for me financially. I asked why he didn’t feel so strongly about paying for my first exams, also £400 which he replied I could afford to pay for them myself. Then we have the famous “you can afford it” quote when I told my dad of the financial sacrifice I was making to keep him in his comfortable lifestyle. His response? “You can afford it” Yes I can, but it isn’t the same as I should. That will haunt me until I die. I can afford not to eat everyday, but the effects long term are not desirable. I can and have been able to afford to bail my parents out every time they have needed to but the effects have not been desirable. What is possible and what is desirable are 2 different things. My father should have been advocating for me to have the best, rather than less than average so he could continue spending money on the people who he was essentially buying a place in their lives.
Lastly when he was sick I gave £100 to his old boy’s association annual fees. I did that freely because it meant a lot to him and he was sick and I didn’t want him to worry. I did it effortlessly because I am frugal and had the money in my savings account, same as for Loretta, but I didn’t resent the Grammar School of Sierra Leone because the Grammar School of Sierra Leone wasn’t rude to me.
Then we’ll come to my mum’s sins.
£30,000 over 6 years for my cousin Ore, who I personally don’t resent, but I resent the principal of being responsible to someone else’ kid to the tune of 6 times what you spent on your own to go through education, or the equivalent of what you spend on getting me a deposit for a house using the capital of a house my parents had put under my name. Meanwhile, her own father drank away her university fees and that of her older sister (who was a scholarship kid) and he was content doing so. Her mum couldn’t make up the difference and that’s where my mum stepped in. The 3rd parent.
Then there was the Grace Grosvenor problem. My mum paid £200 a year to pay for her university fees for the child of a brother she didn’t live with, and I can’t honestly tell you 5 times my mum mentioned her name from 0-25. Meanwhile she’d owe me several thousand pounds in that time and she was giving £400 to Grace Grosvenor to pay for school fees when she has 2 parents living and I, her daughter was sweating and not able to make plans because my mum held all my money. I was living in terror whilst someone else who my mum hasn’t met more than 5 times was having her school fees paid by what is essentially a "mystery benefactor” I’m not saying Grace shouldn’t go to university. I’m saying my mum shouldn’t pay for it. I know so little about her and her family I can’t even tell you if her dad is a drunk or not and therefore drank away her university education like my cousin Ore’s father did. I have a funny feeling he is but I’ll literally have to ask my mum to confirm. Never spoken to my uncle, he’s never taken an interest in me, his niece, why should he? The only reason my mum has a relationship of any depth with that family is because she purchased it via Grace’s fees.
11. We’ve previously discussed the campaign of terror my mum wrought on me when she needed the various properties sold/mortgaged last year. The facts of the case are that my parents can be incredibly unreasonable, believing when you are doing a favour for someone that is your chief priority and you must do it NOW and therefore the fact that I was working 20-16 hour days at the time was of little relevance to my parents. They got very abusive towards me very quickly. I get it, they needed the work done, but I needed to rest, or work, or eat and I was taking time away from those various important items to ensure that their property business took priority. It cost me deeply in my soul. I remember crying because I was scared and embarrassed to go to my neighbours for a fourth time to get them to sign as a witness to something or other. My printer wouldn’t work, I’d have to use the one at work, which meant remembering to do it during an incredibly difficult time. My ex was breathing fire down my neck and I was in absolute hell. How I didn’t crumble I do not know. God sustained me but he shouldn’t have had to. There is no need to treat your daughter with such mental violence. As if I am an enemy instead of God’s child born from your womb. But I lived through it and before I knew it my mum went on to commit further crimes against me.
12. Yes, my mother would do things that… well…May God help me. I was extremely upset, calling citizens advice and everything when what would happens? My dad got sick so I had to just “get over it.”
13. The fact that despite the fact that I lived in a rent free house it was when my parents stated living in Southampton that my mum started buying clothes from the street markets and charity shops for me. I remember for my 16th I bought 3 tops in new look, it was a significant moment because I went shopping with my mum in an actual high street shop. When I was 0-10 years old my mum made my clothes and they were fantastic, 10-14 I’d have less clothes made by mum and I don’t know where my clothes came from, but I knew they were brand new when she bought them because my mum was a hawk for returning things that didn’t fit. Why did I not have brand new clothes when my parents both worked? I remember when I started at Peabody, my internship, my mum bought a set of brown trousers, and an orange cardigan for me from Monsoon, it was a rarity. I wore those trousers out. I still have the Cardigan. My mum bought a purple dress for me for my ex’s 21st birthday party in Wales (I was 19) with a matching silver bolero and a different purple dress for me when I turned 18 both were from Monsoon. My 16th birthday dress was from a market stall and my mum sewed two together because the skirt wasn’t long enough. I only wore it once because she didn’t really like the effect which was unusual for her. I remember a green silk dress from Monsoon was also purchased when I when I was in Egham, I believe it was for my parents welcome service. How sad it is that I can recall every new item of clothing from a high street store that I owned. Other than that it was market stalls and charity shops. My parents thought it was thrift, it was, but I deserved better. For 10 years you have just had described all the clothes I had. This got me used to a level of frugality that I now know to be abnormal, its not frugal to have so few clothes, it was poverty. But why was I poor? My parents were living in a house rent free and they were buying clothes for £3 here or £5 there for their own daughter. I have no idea why I was so poor (barring the Aunt Priscilla incident and the aftermath) but I shouldn’t be able to recall all the new clothes I received in a 10 year period. That my dears is sad.
14. This is on top of the fact that my parents (dad) bought me second hand books and toys. Christmas and birthdays would be new toys, sometimes a £20 limit, but the majority of my toys growing up would be second hand, books, I’d remember other people’s inscriptions on the books. Growing up whenever I’d get a new book I’d immediately go to the cover of the book. Dad would always write my name or his in the book along with the purchase date if it was brand new and even if it wasn’t I’d read the inscription of the previous owner and then put my name under it. Or as a very small child I’d remember getting childrens’ books and the previous child would have taken a pen to the book and scribbled all over it. Or it was dog eared and a bit beaten up. Every year my primary school would give out free books as a result of a partnership with the “worshipful company of Dyers” I wish I’d kept all those books. Some of them were really cool. You could have any book you wanted, just say the name and the author to your teacher when the time came and you’d get that book. It was great. God bless them.
15. Parents financial decisions to this day. Still not good. My dad’s will was a “Mic drop” moment, and yet held 0 protection for me. My dad’s estate has held 0 protection for me. Even worse that the executors are my mum’s family which means mum gets to do whatever she wants and no one is actually giving a damn about the law, or me or what the will actually says. Ultimately my dad’s estate has left me cold because I don’t feel protected, even against my mother.
16. The family home. My dad left me with 50% of the family home. Yet they have always been too busy giving money to Ore and Grace and Walton. As a result this has brought untold stress to me. Ditto the estate in the USA. Obviously, I will not allow any further bad things happen because after decades of financial abuse I’ve had enough. But its wrong to make your child responsible for your safety. Its not my jurisdiction, especially when you didn’t plan for yourself. Essentially having your cake and eating it too. I am responsible for you, but you are not responsible for me.
My parents financial abuse of me started from birth and sadly continues to this day. In times it took the form of neglect, sometimes it took the form of adultification, but most of the time it was living with a gun to your head. If someone else needed something, they took priority. What the subliminal message there was “You are a second class citizen in your own home” “Not even your own parents prioritise you” “You don’t deserve nice things or stability because there is always someone who deserves it more.” “Don’t get used to any state because it can be stripped from you as quick as a blink of an eye.”
So many sad memories, they don’t negate the good ones, but my parents tripped up on some really basic stuff. Really basic and as a result I have spent my life to date shielding myself financially and emotionally from their mistakes and trying to provide for myself the healing, the love and tenderness they didn’t show me. I have been my own best friend. My own mother, my own father. My own whole ass support system.
When my dad passed away, at his funeral everyone said what a wonderful person he was, how generous he was with time and money. With time, I agree with, and there was no cost for me as to how he spent his time. I still felt loved. Money, however? My parents took the shirt from my back and gave it to all of you. Of course, you think he’s a great person. But do you know the cost to me? Do you know what that did to me?
It left me cold. I have had to warm myself up.
Grace and Courage.
Annetta Mother Smith