Read Online Mummy Where Are You? (Revised Edition, new) by Jeanne D'Olivier - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeanne D'Olivier
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when I was studying Shakespeare . “For Sport” was the answer that most people agree upon – the Machiavellian Iago had done it because he could – what sport was this? Hurting a child, to hurt his mother – for sport – the sport of the Psychologist who was biased towards the quiet man who had abused his son. The man who played charm personified, whilst embodying an evil tendency that I had known nothing about when I dated him. For child abusers do not come with it stamped on their forehead and come in many guises – often in the guise of Prince Charming.
I could talk about how I met R. I could tell you all about our turbulent relationship – his controlling nature – his cruelty – hidden behind this veneer of charm – but none of that is important – for that is the story of the person I was then – a person I will never be again – it is not the story of who I have become and this is the story of Miss A - me, Charlotte - a woman looking through the thick glass wall of a corrupt and impenetrable system.
My son once asked me if I wished that I had never met his daddy. I told him that was not the case. I told him that if I hadn't met Daddy I would not have met M and M was the best thing that had ever happened to me. In the wisdom and simplicity of a child’s mind, he said, but if you had not met my daddy you would have met someone else and you would have had a different child, you wouldn’t have known me. I told him that I could not have borne not to know him. No other child would have been right for me. M was the child I wanted and nothing would ever make me regret that. I only regretted that M could not have had a better father. He deserved so much better and after all this terrible thing he had done to his own child – was a sickness – a sickness from which he could not get well – it could only be that, for anything else would make him a monster – but that was how M saw him.
He painted me a picture once of his perception of the situation – a child’s way of communicating. He described it as a scary monster. At the time we were in supervised contact and he could not tell me his fears. It was a picture of a large phallic black being with red eyes emerging out of the water. He had drawn two tiny figures in a boat in the sea underneath. He told me that the two figures were escaping from the big black scary monster. It was a picture that told it all and it was my son’s world – but I no longer had the boat on which we could escape. We were now both prisoners of the CAS – we had merely swapped one prison of fear for another, but it was worse because we were now in solitary confinement. He in his foster home God knew where and me in the house of our dreams. It was cruel beyond anything. The very agency set up to protect the young was the one destroying them. It was insanity in a parallel universe where nothing made sense.
As we drove back to my Florida home, the pain of seeing M so anguished still with me, I could not get his little face out of my mind – his despair, his terror, his vulnerability. I will never forget the image of my innocent child on that day, so devastated and bewildered, punished for no crime – all because he had dared to tell his mummy what his daddy was doing behind closed doors, daring to break the silence, asking for help.
M had been failed by the Police, Social Services, the Guardian Ad Litem – all who pretended to be the voice of the child – all who hid behind a mantle of "best interests of the child" and all who had helped to crush M for telling the truth. Where was God in all of this? We are led to believe that if one is honest, tells the truth, lives a good life, acts with love, that life will be good. But what happens when you do all those things,
I could talk about how I met R. I could tell you all about our turbulent relationship – his controlling nature – his cruelty – hidden behind this veneer of charm – but none of that is important – for that is the story of the person I was then – a person I will never be again – it is not the story of who I have become and this is the story of Miss A - me, Charlotte - a woman looking through the thick glass wall of a corrupt and impenetrable system.
My son once asked me if I wished that I had never met his daddy. I told him that was not the case. I told him that if I hadn't met Daddy I would not have met M and M was the best thing that had ever happened to me. In the wisdom and simplicity of a child’s mind, he said, but if you had not met my daddy you would have met someone else and you would have had a different child, you wouldn’t have known me. I told him that I could not have borne not to know him. No other child would have been right for me. M was the child I wanted and nothing would ever make me regret that. I only regretted that M could not have had a better father. He deserved so much better and after all this terrible thing he had done to his own child – was a sickness – a sickness from which he could not get well – it could only be that, for anything else would make him a monster – but that was how M saw him.
He painted me a picture once of his perception of the situation – a child’s way of communicating. He described it as a scary monster. At the time we were in supervised contact and he could not tell me his fears. It was a picture of a large phallic black being with red eyes emerging out of the water. He had drawn two tiny figures in a boat in the sea underneath. He told me that the two figures were escaping from the big black scary monster. It was a picture that told it all and it was my son’s world – but I no longer had the boat on which we could escape. We were now both prisoners of the CAS – we had merely swapped one prison of fear for another, but it was worse because we were now in solitary confinement. He in his foster home God knew where and me in the house of our dreams. It was cruel beyond anything. The very agency set up to protect the young was the one destroying them. It was insanity in a parallel universe where nothing made sense.
As we drove back to my Florida home, the pain of seeing M so anguished still with me, I could not get his little face out of my mind – his despair, his terror, his vulnerability. I will never forget the image of my innocent child on that day, so devastated and bewildered, punished for no crime – all because he had dared to tell his mummy what his daddy was doing behind closed doors, daring to break the silence, asking for help.
M had been failed by the Police, Social Services, the Guardian Ad Litem – all who pretended to be the voice of the child – all who hid behind a mantle of "best interests of the child" and all who had helped to crush M for telling the truth. Where was God in all of this? We are led to believe that if one is honest, tells the truth, lives a good life, acts with love, that life will be good. But what happens when you do all those things,
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