Gristle (A True-Life Story)

This is a real-life story that I wrote a few days ago. As I’m terribly busy for the next week, I thought I’d post this piece, but I hope to write a more up-to-date post when I can. This is rather long, so I would be very grateful if you could take the time to read it. Thank you ~ Ellie x


I missed her terribly, but not a word had been uttered about her disappearance from home or, more painfully, from my life, leaving me in limbo and feeling very vulnerable.

Instead, there was a strange woman who’d taken the place of my mother. She got me up in the morning, gave me breakfast and ushered me out the front door to begin my short journey to school. I was told to call her Auntie Vera, but at eight years old, I silently objected to calling a perfect stranger my Auntie. She was bossy, with straight grey hair swept back off her face in a bun. She wore my Mum’s blue and white checked pinny around her thick waist. I wanted to say that the pinny belonged to my Mum, and I didn’t want this total stranger wearing it. It wasn’t hers, after all, but I didn’t dare risk a scolding from this sharp-tongued woman. Auntie Vera became the only person I saw every morning. There was, as usual, no sign of my father, who always left early for work at the upholstery factory with not as much as a ‘good morning’ or a ‘goodbye.’

At breakfast, I sat at the small Formica table while Auntie Vera pulled down the flap on the front of the sage green kitchen cabinet to get the porridge oats. She tipped a large spoonful into an aluminium pan, added boiling water and a pinch of salt and left it to cook for a few minutes. Then she dished out two large steaming dollops into my bowl. I didn’t like it; it wasn’t like my Mum used to make. Auntie Vera’s porridge was so thick and gloopy that my spoon could nearly stand up in it, and it made me feel sick it. I so wished my Mum was here, but there was still no explanation about what had happened to her. My mind wandered, and I shivered as I wondered if she had died, but no one had told me. I missed her so much, and the thought of her never returning upset and scared me. I choked back my tears and forced my porridge down.

That day, after school, I trudged home reluctantly, knowing grumpy Auntie Vera would greet me. Earlier in the day, I’d been told off for daydreaming in class. I so wanted my Mum to be the one to open the front door and reach her arms out to hug me and ask me if I’d had a good day. But it was only a dream, and I was met by this ill-tempered woman still wearing my Mum’s pinny. I felt cross, but I didn’t dare say anything.

A couple of hours later, I was very surprised to hear my father opening the front door with his heavy keys. He wasn’t usually home at this time. He told me to go and brush my knotty brown hair and to put on my best dress and smartest school shoes. I did as I was told, as I feared being reprimanded by him. He led me to his black Morris Minor outside our house. I clambered into the back seat while my father sat at the wheel, lighting up his foul-smelling pipe as always. The plumes of smoke wafted into the back of the car. It made me feel sick. I was glad when he pulled up in front of a large building and got out. I had no idea where we were or what this building was.


My father roughly took my hand as I climbed out of the car, and he led me into the building, and then up two flights of stairs. I wondered where we were going and what we were doing there. We turned through a door on the left and were met by a nurse. I was confused; why had we come to a hospital? We were taken through a set of double doors, which the nurse unlocked for us to enter. As we did, I was confronted by two long rows of hospital beds, one on each side of the ward. I could hear loud, muddled voices and the occasional shout or scream. People in nightgowns walked about the ward, many muttering to themselves. A nasty strong smell of urine permeated the air. I was scared and didn’t understand why we were here with all these strange people.

Suddenly, a small bearded man in pyjamas shuffled nearer and reached out to me. My father pulled me away sharply and continued to walk the length of the hospital ward. I glanced around, and as we almost reached the end, I was shocked to see my Mum sitting in a chair next to one of the beds on the righthand side. She didn’t look like she did at home. She was pale, thin, and dressed in a pink hospital nightie and grey woollen socks. As we reached her, she didn’t appear to recognise me, so I leaned over to her and planted a kiss on her cheek. She didn’t smell like my Mum. She smelt of TCP – the same liquid Mum added to a pan of my father’s dirty hankies that often boiled in an old saucepan.

My father walked to the far end of the ward and returned with two folded-up wooden chairs. Sitting on the neatly-made beds wasn’t allowed. This was my Mum, yet I was lost for words to say to her. My father said very little, too, so I sat, upset and uncomfortable. Mum didn’t attempt to make any conversation, but she stared vacantly into space for much of the time. I didn’t understand why she wasn’t looking at me or talking to me. It was only many years later that I discovered that my Mum had had ECT treatment, which delivers an electric shock to the brain and is meant to help get a person back into a less-depressed state. Instead, it seemed to have left her confused and drowsy, unable to speak to us properly. The longer we sat there, the more distraught I felt. I wanted to go home but, at the same time, I wanted to stay with my Mum. I was frightened that I might never see her again if we left.

Finally, a loud bell rang, signalling the end of visiting time. My father got up, returned our chairs and told me we were leaving. I waved at my Mum, but she didn’t respond.

Would I ever see my Mum again? What if she could never talk to me again?

I felt a chill running the length of my spine as I once again wondered whether she would die in the hospital and never come home. Tears were running down my cheeks, and I let out a quiet sob.

 “Stop snivelling, you wretched child,” my father ordered. The ward doors were slammed and locked behind us, and I quickly wiped my tears away as we continued down the two flights of stairs.

We climbed into my father’s car and drove the short journey home. On arrival, my father turned the keys in the lock; we were greeted by Auntie Vera in my Mum’s pinny again. She noticed my tear-stained face and spoke to my father, demanding to know whether I’d be causing any trouble. I always seemed to be in trouble with this woman. I didn’t want her there; I desperately wanted my Mum to come home again.


Weeks went by. Dad was rarely home in those days, so I was left to the mercy of Auntie Vera, still wearing my Mum’s pinny. I wanted to snatch it away from her, but I wasn’t brave enough. She would have certainly told my father; then, I’d be in for a good hiding, like many times before.

I ran to my room, burst through the door, and threw myself onto my bed, grasping my bear, Peter, for comfort. It was cold in my room, so I slipped under my pea-green woollen blanket to keep warm. I knew I’d be in trouble if I were caught, so I lay there, hardly daring to breathe and hoped that I’d hear Auntie Vera coming up the stairs in good time to jump up and tidy up my bed so she wouldn’t know I’d been lazy.

It wasn’t long before I began to feel hungry, but it was time for Auntie Vera to go home, so as usual, she took me to the next-door neighbour’s house. It was the same routine every evening. The family cared for me until my father got home from his regular visit to the pub after he’d finished work.

The neighbours were called Auntie Rose and Uncle Mohajit. I enjoyed playing with their two children, who were ten and eight, but I didn’t like the food they had for dinner, which was often chicken or mutton curry and rice. I wasn’t keen on spicy food; Mum never cooked anything like that. I didn’t dare make a fuss and had to force it down, hating every mouthful. Occasionally, I came across a gristly piece of meat. I tried chewing and chewing, but I just couldn’t swallow it for fear it would get stuck in my throat, making me sick. I knew better than to spit it out.

Everyone else had finished their meal and left the table, but Auntie Rose instructed me not to leave until I’d eaten everything. They all went into the living room while I sat there, desperately wishing the lump of gristle would disappear. I looked around the dining room with my mind wandering in different directions. Did I have enough courage to bury this lumpy bit of meat in one of the flowerpots? I could dig a hole in the earth, and perhaps, no one would ever know. Or could I sneak out and give it to their tabby cat when no one was looking?

After a while, although terrified of being caught, I tiptoed silently to the large rubber plant in a heavy clay flowerpot. My heart was thumping hard as I carefully dug a hole in the soil with my finger. I spat the gristle into my hand, quickly pushed it firmly into the hole, and covered it with the remaining earth. I returned to the table briefly, feeling guilty about deceiving the family. I gradually caught my breath again and waited for my heart to stop beating so hard.

Should I join the family in the living room? I wondered whether they would somehow know what I’d done. I knew I’d been in terrible trouble if I were to be found out. I walked hesitantly towards the living room door, knocked softly and waited to be let in. As the door opened, the whole family stared at me. Now, I knew I was in serious trouble and was sure my father would be told, and I would receive a beating. Oh, how I wished my Mum would come home again. It would be several weeks before that happened, and in the meantime, my nightmare continued …


Author: Ellie Thompson

Writing my memoirs, musings, a little fiction and a lot of poetry as a way of exploring and making the most of my life ... ... Having had a break from writing my blog for more than three years, I decided to return to write my memoirs, some day-to-day observations, views and feelings. My passion is non-fiction poetry. I have a disability and use an electric powerchair called Alfie and let nothing get in the way of living life to the full. I believe that you can never do a kindness too soon and should give credit where credit is due. A smile or a kind word could make the difference between a good or bad day for a person - we never know what's going on for another soul. Those little things, perhaps, practised daily like a mantra, could mean so much to someone else. Thank you for visiting my blog and reading a little more about me. Please, make yourself at home here. You are very welcome. Ellie x 😊

52 thoughts on “Gristle (A True-Life Story)”

    1. Thank you, Richard. I think we all have skeletons in our closets, don’t we? I find it so cathartic to write. Writing has huge healing properties for me, and I’m very thankful for that 💙.

      I probably won’t get much time to write this week, as I have a big event happening in London next weekend, and I’m rushed off my feet trying to get everything ready. Having said that, it takes a lot to tear me away from my writing, so watch this space.

    1. Thank you, Brian. It was a pretty awful time in my childhood in so many ways, as you’re probably aware, having been a good blogging friend for quite some time. I don’t think I’ll ever forget walking into that old-fashioned, or typical, 1960s psychiatric ward. I’m glad you could get the feel of this piece, albeit not a pleasant feeling.

      Thanks for the good luck wishes for next weekend (Saturday mainly). There’s a lot of preparation to do in the meantime. It’ll keep me out of mischief! I will write about it after it’s over and I’m back home again. I must try to remember to take some photos, so I can share them here.

    1. Thank you for your kind words, Cathy. I do find, as you said, that sharing my real-life stories helps to reduce the level of trauma and pain. I am very grateful that I’m able to write, as it is a very cathartic and healing act. I hope you are well today. Xx 💕

      1. Thank you Ellie, I am well enough with the aching bones that anticipate the warmth of the summer sun. It is an age thing.

        I have learned that these childhood memories are indelible shadows that can become the strength of age. Share these carefully for the pain and uncertainty of horror can resurface in unintentional ways. The sharing is a healing, an affirmation that it was only one building block of the life that you now lead.

        Acceptance in sharing is key. Acceptance too is understanding that even though our memories are ours, they can not be argued away, lessoned or strengthen. They just are. And as a memory, an experience, it brought you stronger to the whole where you now reside.

        Wordy I know. My memories are filled, too, with what should have not been. But there they are. When I shared these, those with whom i shared were also tormented, so I no longer share. Just hint, for i have many building blocks in the shadows of my soul. The sharing of these were so that i could learn and harbour tools that keep me strong.

        Your sharing will keep you strong by bringing these memories into your strength and will leave behind the vulnerability of emptiness that such experiences bring.

        Take care and know that you are not alone in these terrors of childhood and youth.


        1. Oh, Cathy, I can’t thank you enough for your thoughtful and sensitive comments 💗. Your words mean so much to me. I’m sorry that you, too, have suffered trauma in your life. It must be so hard for you not to be able to share your memories for fear of upsetting others. May I ask if these were people in the blogging world or, perhaps, family members or friends?

          I have been very fortunate, as I have shared much of my story and traumas over the last couple of years and have received so much support and love from my friends and readers here. Perhaps, I’m lucky in that my ‘real-life’ family and friends don’t read my blog; in fact, they don’t know that I write one (apart from my best friend, and she has been wonderful).

          I love what you say about sharing being healing – it definitely has helped me to rebuild my life in a healthier way. I like how you describe these memories and experiences as building blocks in our lives.

          When I first started sharing in my blog, it was many years ago, and back then, I did feel more vulnerable for having exposed these memories and feelings. Now, that doesn’t happen – I just find writing about them to be very cathartic, and I hope my words can help someone else to feel less alone with their traumas and experiences.

          If every you would like to talk, Cathy, you are more than welcome to write to me using my contact page to begin with. It will come straight into my inbox and I will always reply from there promptly. Much love to you, my friend. Xx 💖

          1. Thank you Ellie for your kind words and the offer of listening.

            I gracefully decline.

            I spent many an hour with psychologists and on occasion, I would look up from such a sharing to see the tears streaming down their face. Honest tears yet my rendering of my early years would bring such dismay to others where i can only breath deeply and move on. It was their job to listen and coach, and they did well at this. Yet, at the end of the day, their professional standards allow for them to have counselling, a debriefing as it were, for their response to memories like mine.

            Most people that I meet do not have these resources to be debriefed. So, I choose to no longer share these memories that rattle and bulk at the seams. What I chose to do is find solace in creative bits. Here I succeed, each day a new win, a new adventure not built upon the old.

            Keep sharing your memories, you write well and the imagery is clear, just like your memory.

            take care and many, many thanks for your offer.


  1. What a tragic story. For me, a lot was relatable — the morris minor, the pipe smoke, sitting at the table long after everyone else finished trying to eat stuff I couldn’t swallow. Fortunately, the part about the abusive adults is completely alien to me. Would like to read more along this story line.

    1. Thanks for your comment, Jeff. I can still see that Morris Minor sitting outside our house. It was black, as I think most cars were those days.

      The pipe smoke was a constant feature in my life. Sometimes, I wondered whether my father’s pipe was superglued to his mouth! He smoked it everywhere, and the only times I saw him without it was when he was eating, not that he deigned to eat with us, anyway. He had his meals upstairs in the warmth and comfort of the living room, while Mum and us children had to sit in the freezing cold and draughty kitchen. Even when my father fell asleep in his armchair, he still had his pipe hanging out of his mouth! To this day, I wonder whether my father’s lung and brain cancer was attributable to his pipe smoking. He died in 2012, but I can’t honestly say that i miss him, although that might sound mean and perhaps, callous. I’m not sure.

      It’s surprising how many readers have commented on food they were forced to eat, too. I guess it was more common then to do that to children. I’m very glad you didn’t have any experiences of abuse in your childhood. I’m not sure there is very much more to write about on this story line. A couple of other people have also said they would like to read more. There are still other times in my life that I haven’t shared; fortunately, not all as traumatic. I think, writing for my blog has not only been cathartic, but has served as a way to take some of my power back. I’m so grateful to all my very encouraging and kind readers in supporting me in this. Have a great day, Jeff, and I hope your eyes are settling down following your operation. I will read your post about this today.

      I’ve been so busy preparing for the ‘big’ event in London, which takes place next weekend. I will write a post about it when I get back from London.

    1. Thank you so much for your kind words, David. That means a lot to me. I am very glad that you feel encouraged. I know you’ve been through tough times, too, so I know that you understand where I am coming from. Thanks again.. Take care of yourself.

    1. Yes, it was very traumatic at the time, Ann, as was most of my childhood, as you know. Fortunately, I have got over the time in my life that I’ve written about here. Xx

  2. This was brave, Ellie. Your memories are important. I am always amazed by how someone else’s memories can resonate with me.
    Sharing the hard stuff takes a lot of courage.
    I can remember chewing a piece of overcooked meat forever. Cooked by my mother, who could turn peas grey. I wish I had thought of a plant pot.
    Thank you for sharing. I wish you good energy for your London event. Xx

    1. Thank you so much, Allie. Fortunately, although this was a horrible time in my childhood, as much of my childhood was, I can deal with it calmly and not too emotionally now. It as very emotional to write, though, but the feeling didn’t last for too long. It helped to write – it always does, as I find writing so cathartic. Isn’t it strange that we have so much in common. I’m sorry you had a similar experience as a child. Grey peas don’t sound very inviting at all. I was pretty desperate at the time of daring to bury the gristle in the plant pot.

      Thank you very much for sending me good energy for Saturday. I will write all about it after the event. It’s all very exciting, but scary at the same time. At least, I will be with friends. Xx 💖

    1. Thanks, Granny. I’m not sure there is a second part, as I broke the story up into three parts here to make it easier to read. The situation I wrote about just continued for many months, but I’m not sure there is much more to tell. There are still parts of my life, good and bad, that I haven’t written about yet. I will have to think about that a bit more. Much love to you, my friend. Xxx 💖

      1. You are most welcome,Ellie❤️
        Yes It’s your really true life story of part for childhood. Really i inspiring. Where & when your event,

    1. Thank you, Devang. It was a very long time ago; you are right. Childhood trauma stays with you for your lifetime. I was able to write this, remembering how it felt at the time, but I got over the despair and pain a long time ago. Please, don’t worry, my friend 😊.

  3. Very disappointing to hear that no one explained anything, and no one was compassionate and understanding. Such ignorant shallow people at best and abusive at worst. I don’t remember most of my childhood except when a bad event now reminds me of a short incident from childhood that is related. Then I forget it again. We had peppermint flavored toothpaste and I was told to brush my teeth before breakfast so that the scrambled eggs had a peppermint taste that was dreadful and besides that they were incompletely whipped so that the finished product had large white globules between the yellow that looked exactly like mucus. I always felt like vomiting. It might not have been until 30 years later when I discovered that I like scrambled eggs when I do it myself. And actually I like spinach and broccoli and nearly everything I make myself or that a sane person prepares.

    1. Thanks for taking the time to read my story, Doug. I appreciate that. Adults don’t seem to realise the damage they could be doing to a child, that is, unless the abuse of this sort was deliberate. I think, back then, these things went on in lots of areas of children’s lives without it being considered abuse. I don’t know whether it was just accepted behaviour or ignorance.

      I’m sorry you had a similar experience with scrambled eggs. Peppermint-flavoured scrambled eggs sound disgusting. I can see why when you explain about it. I’m very glad you’ve come to enjoy them now and broccoli and spinach, too. These things can stay with us forever, although if we are fortunate, we manage to deal with these fears and feelings of disgust later in life. I don’t eat meat at all now. I made the best decision for me, which was to become vegan after having been a vegetarian for 30 years. Mind you, that decision wasn’t connected to the one that I’ve written about, but more for ethical reasons. It was one of my better decisions in my life. I really do enjoy my food now. I cook for myself, too and it’s good to be able to choose exactly what I want and do not want to eat.

  4. I can feel something so cold running as a theme through this. A child so left in the dark, the lack of care or concern for your feelings… Watching your mum go through that… Everything you had to hold onto and hide… Everything! There is just so much here. And it’s so haunting.

    I appreciate you Ellie. I’m also grateful to God to be alive in this moment of time, so I can be one of many that gets to hear the story of your pain. You’re such a beautiful soul. And I’m glad that on the other side of that nightmare, that you can know that now and feel it in your being. 🌹💓❤️💖

    1. Thank you so much for your kind and tender words, Christopher. It was one of those many tough times in my childhood. I was left in the dark, as you say, and with no comfort or words of reassurance offered by the adults around me. It was hard not to have my Mum around at such a young age, and given everything else I was going through over those years. I was used to hiding secrets by then. Some of my readers have asked if I’m going to continue the ‘story’, but I’ve said this situation simply continued and repeated over a period of many years of my childhood.

      I always find writing about my experiences healing and cathartic, so it has helped to write this. Thank you for being there for me and for witnessing my story and my pain. Fortunately, I’m in quite a good place at the moment, although frantically busy preparing for an important event that’s coming up next weekend in London. I will write more about this after the event has ended.

      I hope you are keeping well, my dear friend. Sending love Xx 💓🌹💓🌹💖🌹💓🌹💓

  5. I love your writing style Ellie, it flows beautifully and keeps me glued to your words. I agree with you that we each have skeletons in our closets and how cathartic it can be to write about them.
    Thanks for sharing your childhood story Ellie 🙏🏼

    1. Thank you so much, Margaret. I’m glad you like my way of writing. I write from my heart and soul. WIthout them, I don’t think I could write about my experiences at all. As you say, I do find writing about my skeletons very cathartic and healing. I also hope, when I write, that someone else will realise they are not alone in whatever has happened to them. Thanks again, Margaret. Xx 🌷

  6. A painful experience for a child and a difficult thing to write to relive in your writing. However, is this going to be part of a continuing story? One wonders what happened next, when you mother finally came home. Good luck on your London trío.

    1. Thank you for reading and your comment, Geoff. It was a very painful time in my childhood, as much of my childhood was for all sorts of reasons and various bad experiences. I find writing about these things to be very cathartic, and so I do get some element of relief from doing that, which is a blessing. I’m not sure about continuing the story, as the situation just continued over a period of months, and then, the pattern was repeated each time my Mum had to go into hospital again. I knew no different at that tender age; I just knew I didn’t like it when my Mum wasn’t there.

      Thank you for your good luck wishes for the coming weekend, Geoff. They are much appreciated. I have been exceptionally busy the last couple of days getting all the preparation done in good time. I am, once again, miles behind in reading my blogging friends’ posts, so please forgive me for not having read yours amongst many yet.

  7. My heart goes out to you, Ellie. I remember visiting my mum in the psychiatric hospital when I was 10. It was a scary old Victorian relic. My Dad was MIA (back in America and not in my life). I am not sure how he would have reacted but alcohol would have been involved. Perhaps your Dad’s fear of the situation and stigma made him behave so badly to you? My mum seemed like a different person after ECT and heavy medication.

    I hope publishing this post has helped you feel in control.

    1. Hello, Chatty Kerry. Thank you so much for reading my writing and being kind enough to leave a comment. It is very much appreciated. I’m sorry you had the experience of visiting your mum in a psychiatric hospital, too. The one my Mum was in was also an old Victorian building, inside and out. I think ECT works for some people, and I’m glad it worked for your mum. Mum was also put on a lot of medication, mostly a very high dose of Diazepam (Valium), which made her sleep a lot when she came home. I loved her so much, and as the eldest daughter, I took some responsibility for my younger sisters. I lost her six years ago now, and I miss her very much. We were very close.

      I’m so sorry your Dad was MIA. Do you miss him, even though he wasn’t in your life? My father drank a lot, too. He had no fear of the situation, but there was definitely an element of stigma and not liking to be connected to ‘crazy’ people, as he used to say! He really wasn’t a nice person anyway and was violent towards my Mum and very unkind to my sisters and me. I wrote a piece about him a while back now. It was called ‘A Formidable Man’, and it told it exactly as it was. It explained how he really was despite his calm, supposedly kind acts for the benefit of other people. He was much respected in the community because no one knew what was going on at home.

      Publishing this post and others definitely helps me to come to terms with a pretty grim past in more ways than one. I find writing to be healing and cathartic. Thanks again, Kerry x 🌹

      1. Your home background sounds so like mine. My mum didn’t really benefit from ECT and became an alcoholic after leaving the hospital. I was an only child so it was lonely. My Dad’s whole family (in USA) thought of him as a black sheep – he even went to prison for forging checks. I think I was glad not to have him in my life. When I was 30 I contacted him by letter but regretted it. That’s another long story that I should turn into a poignant post!
        It is a pleasure to have connected with you, Ellie. Kerry xx

        1. I’m sorry you’ve been through so much with your parents. It must have been very difficult for you being a single child. I was fortunate to have two younger sisters at the time. My youngest sister wasn’t born until I was 14, and I did quite a lot of caring for her while my Mum was poorly. I adored my little sister. My parents said she wasn’t planned, which is why she came along when I was older.

          I can’t imagine how it must have felt to know that your father was in prison. You were very brave to contact him, but I’m sorry it didn’t work out and that you regretted it. I intended to write a letter to my father to ask why he had treated us and Mum so badly. I never plucked up the courage as an adult. He died in 2012, and I have to say that I don’t miss him at all. I hope if you do write about contacting your dad, you find it cathartic. I know I did when I wrote the post about my father that I mentioned above.

          Thank you for ‘finding’ me and reading my post, Kerry. I’m very glad that our paths have crossed, too. I will be interested to read your post about contacting your father if ever you write it.

          I will call in to visit your blog very soon. I posted on my blog today that because of an exciting event going on this weekend, I have stacks to do in preparation, and I am taking a short break from trying to keep up with all my blog reading. I’m looking forward to catching up with you again soon. Ellie Xx 💕

  8. It was hard to push the like button for this one, because although it was very well-written, the story itself is beyond sad. I’m so sorry you, or any child, had to deal with this kind of situation. Children are so vulnerable that it makes it much worse when they are neglected or abused. I can’t imagine how confused you must have felt, how isolated, and how betrayed!

    1. Thank you, Ann. I know sometimes we come across something someone has written, and it’s hard to push the like button. I understand why you felt like that. It was an awful time in my life, like so much of my life as a child. There wasn’t much I didn’t go through in my early years, which did indeed leave me confused and isolated. I didn’t really know any differently apart from knowing I was so scared and unhappy. Sometimes, I think it’s not until we’re grown up and realise that our lives shouldn’t have been filled with so much pain that’s when it really hits us. I know it did with me. For all the years I have been in therapy, I still haven’t got rid of all the pain. I wonder sometimes whether those feelings will ever leave me. I’ve had so much therapy over the years, as you know; some good and some shockingly awful. I’m still waiting to see a new therapist at the moment – it’s been nearly four months since I finished my last course. Having said that, I’m quite good at the moment and am wondering if I want to dig up all my past stuff again. I’ve come to terms with a lot of it now, but there are other parts which will stay with me always. Thanks for being so caring, Ann. X 🌹

  9. Thank you Ellie for being so brave and sharing this story with us. Your life is like a terrible storybook where you want to swipe the kid away from such tragedy and give her magical powers or perhaps a secret amazing relative to whisk her away and tell her she’s a princess after all. I want to hug that little Ellie and give her sweets. Shame on all those adults for not being there for you and not explaining the situation. That’s simply incomprehensible.

    1. Thank you dear Bridgette for validating my feelings about all this. It means a lot to me. Sometimes, I get lost in all the bad things that have happened in my life, and in particular, my childhood. I know it reads like a horror story. Thank you for such kind words and your understanding. I wish there had been someone to whisk me away from the awfulness of those situations at the time. However, it was not to be. Writing here, as I do, gives me a way out of all the turmoil, and the support and love from all my readers is helping to rebuild my soul and for that, I am eternally thankful. Thank you for wanting to rescue little Ellie – that would have been wonderful. Now that I’m older and have experienced more of life, I realise that no one is going to come and save me from these memories and dark thought, but this is something I have to do alone. In a way, I’m grateful for that realisation, as it is showing me a way forward. Love to you, my friend. Xx 💓❣💓

      1. I’m glad writing these stories is helping you to heal, dear friend. You’ve been through more than anyone I know and it seems to have helped you hone in on your compassion, kindness, and love. I’m forever grateful for your friendship and support. Love you big 🙂

  10. My heart aches for what you went through as a child Ellie. No child should have had to go through what you did. Unfortunately, it happens way too often. I’m so glad you are in a different place now and have a wonderful family of your own and that you were so close with your mom at the end. 💞

    1. Thank you very much, Cindy. My childhood was extremely hard in many ways, but I know I’m not alone in having a history like this. I am definitely in a much better and happier place now, and not a day goes by when I’m not thankful for that. I love my family dearly – my son and the children are coming to stay over again this coming Thursday through Friday. I’m so looking forward to seeing them again. And Mum, I know she had an equally tough time as a child and growing up in the war years with a mother who was very unkind to her. There was a lot of water under the bridge for both of us, but we became extremely close as the years went by, particularly as she grew older. I was very blessed to have her as my Mum. Xx 💖💕

      1. Life repeats itself sadly but thankfully we learn and grow and each generation gets it a little more right but none of us are immune. oh Yayyyyy another visit.. so much fun!!!! 💞

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