existencialfox

Sunday, 24 April 2016

Reality, Part II: Processed


I questioned, of course, tried to refuse. Tried to explain that I was indeed sane whilst sweating in an old jumper and trying to control the panic and disbelief that this was happening.

I tried rationality, calling my mother and offering to stay with her and seek the proof of a mental health assessment to offer reassurance. At first they seemed to listen, approving the idea, but after a quick phone call with her manager the emergency social worker refused.

\later I found out that this voice on the other end of the line was Kav, whose husband had worked with my abusive ex for years together at a local factory. Once he had followed me into an ally way, becoming aggressive and holding me in a place as he told me of a social work he knew and that one day a file would cross her desk and then they would have me. This was summer 2014, just before he moved into the problematic address, and a couple of weeks before my head injury. At the time I had thought it one of his empty threats, and though feared and a bit bruised, such occurrences were well normalised and I continued.

My mother arrived and gave me the number of a solicitor she had used in her divorce. I only got through to a secretary as it was out of hours. I was told I had no choice. To leave freely, or to try and take my son and be sectioned and/or arrested.

as i left with my mother something broke.

They came to the house and I pressed his blanket and the mother beast (though I forgot the cacoonses) and a few other special things he would need. I promised to supply them with an assessment, that I had a court order. They offered small pleasantries and mutterences and then left.

I called my GP and asked for an assessment, receiving an apt for the next day. 20 minutes before I left to attend the next morning Kav and a social worker from the previous day and had a quick tea and face to face introductions. They seemed reasonable and would want to know what the GP said. I said I wanted my son back and would need to know the dates of when she wanted to meet to complete her assessments, as I was sure that his being taken was not legal, and the the mental health allegations were evidenced against.

Digression:
Thing is, do you remember this post. Weird shit was going down, I had been hurt and those that hurt me that night tried again the night before mother's day 2015. I was spiked. Someone tried to stab me. It was chaotic and leery and I don't trust my memories of it. One of those I thought I could trust, after offering a bit of respite at his place, then also spiked me...again. Just about managing not to pass out I got a taxi and limped home.

apt1: My ribs were sore, and I still had difficulty breathing after a week or so, so popped for a check up with the nurse. I read fantasy, I know the risk of bone fragments migrating. My oxygen levels were good, but she wanted to get the GP to double check. I agreed and made the apt.

BIG MISTAKE

apt2: Now, my surgery, like most surgeries, is really busy. You take what apts are available, and I had never actually had an apt with my registered GP. I had presented as emergency with my injuries and been seen by who was available at the time. However, children's services, had been in contact and sown the seeds of negative bias. They assumed the nasty rumours were true and looked for verification.
"She says she has a head injury."
"I've never even seen her." {does not check medical file}
"So she is a liar, then. Dangerous too."
"Seems so."
This is the image that I walk into, thinking I'm just going for a second opinion. I'm immediately discredited, not believed about the assault and now with added extra's of apparent claims of sexual assault by the police. I am told that I am delusional and that he will make a referral to social services. He argues with me about a repeat prescription of anti-inflammatory and then claims he thought I was after something stronger. He talks to me like a misogynistic pig. Then he calls in a female doctor and ask me to strip for the examination of my ribs, pulling at my vest and not listening when I protest that I am not wearing a bra. The examination is cursory as his fingers touch my skin, not the parts that are injured. I leave in shock. This was the morning of the day my son was taken.

apt3: My mother had arrived again that morning to be there for the cuppa with Kav and came along to this apt. This time it was the GP who had been treating my head injury and the general practitioner manager. I requested a MHA. They put the referral through on emergency and asked me if I thought I needed help. I clarified that I needed proof, and I needed to get my son home. he said he just wasn't sure with me, and looked at me sideways. (Some men are intimidated by a woman's intellect, or a woman pursuing oversight of adequate medical care for a serious injury and and gynecological issues the realistic instance of which men still doubt in the older medical community. Thank fuck for women, junior doctors and modernisation of medical research...oh wait, no, the government are screwing them over too.)

My mother and I return to her house, the dogs need feeding and I make numerous phone calls to seek legal advice; all of which is that my son should be returned, I was clearly quite rational, during this the MHA team got in contact and then promptly arrived and conducted the assessment. "No concern, return the child." As soon as it was completed the phycjiatiric nurse went to sit in her car and let Kav know. When she returned it was revealed my abusive ex had already picked my son up from school moments before and that the Caffcass officer had cleared him for access and was writing the report for court.

Thinking to minimise the strangeness for my son of having been pulled out of class early and given to his paternal grandparents in the presence of the police, I suggested that we followed the timescale of access in the court order. My son would be returned Sunday 5pm. The MH team concurred this was a sensible approach and I confirmed with Kav, giving my permission for the results of the MHA to be shared, she said my abusive ex noted "that's good to know" and that if he should not return my son and I contacted the police to get the court order enforced she "would have to say there was no reason not to return him.".

I offered the paternal family a meeting.

Eventually they contacted back, refusing to say how my son was, and delaying. My abusive ex offered to meet in the pub one of my rapists worked. He then told me he would not be bringing my son home.


Reality, Part I: How the End Came to Be


Alrite there wanderers,

I don't know if I've mentioned it but my head got a bit smashed with a car door July 2014. It fucked me up a bit.

January 2015 my abusive ex applied to court for further access to our son as I had restricted visits to his mother's house after he moved in with a drug dealer. The guy is small time and not a bad person as far as I know, he used to frequent a place I used to waitress in and was friendly like, but this is not an environment for a child. There are different classes of people who purchase drugs and the 'hard' ones should stay well clear of my child, or any child. There is risk with such addictions, violence often becomes currency and well being is devalued to the point of non existence.

What followed was my worst nightmare.

I naively turned up to the first court hearing, suffering amnesia, nerve damage, random movements and balance issues, concen5tration and communication difficulties and other such symptoms. I was awaiting my first CT scan, following a referral from the GP to referral for eye checks then a referral by a neurologist, a slow and winding process of neglect in the harshly under funded and under attack and under strain NHS. I presented a simple statement with a moderate offer of negotiaton that maintained the status qou and enabled safe contact between father and son.

I may have been in pain and presenting poorly but my mind was sound. An order was granted confirming my proposal whilst the case progressed and further checks were sought with Cafcass.

I returned to the daily struggle and had some hope, though I was struggling to cope with issues with my son's school. Due to my injury I struggled to get up in the morning and there was some lateness. An average of 7 minutes late, three times a week. This prompted, fueled by vicious rumours, persistent referrals to social services.

On March 27th 2015, the last Thursday before the easter holidays,  I arrived at the school to pick up my son. He was not waiting with his class. He was not in the office, but a social worker and the school attendance officor and a police man were. They took me to a small room and sat me down, closed the door and stared at me with sad, serious eyes. I have never known such fear and asked where my child was. They would not tell me and I began to cry and asked again. They told me to sit down. I refused and demanded they told me what was going on, was my son safe?

They said yes, he was in another part of the school. I sat down.

They said I was not allowed to have him.

They said I was a liar and crazy.

They tried to section me under the Mental Health Act.

This is how my son, my bright star, my love, was taken.

This is how the end came to be.



Sunday, 27 March 2016

Anniversary



It's been a year, its been a year
                since they took you
shall I count the days, the minutes
the hours and seconds? no
                you already know
all the lost stories at bedtime
and snuffles at night
and smiles in the morning (from you
I always grumbled, and we traded
roles in the afternoon)

It's been a year, it's been a year
                 since they took you
shall I speak of the grief, the anger
the shock, the hungry fear? no
                 you already know
all the ways I miss you
and love you dear
and want you here (safe in
my arms and talking in gestures,
our lifetime language)

its been a year, its been a year
               since they took you
and I will get you home again
will get stronger, will brave on
                you already know
....I hope, always,
I hope for you

Saturday, 12 December 2015

The Rose Key




Only Feminine #?


its the loss and the lonely time,
no holly wine quenchedparchedtongueholy
tasting past love spent in regretting
a world gone awry, all unjusified axis
axeing ropes of fragile hopes

Yet all our hearts still beat (but for those that don't)
born of relatively free feet, wheel, wing, string
voice

and weeping tears, all ears dears damning
a cresting wave of hurt, rotundled yon fronds
of tangle weed knowing
Un tongue

Unfurling, love.

Still.

Monday, 7 December 2015

Bleak


My personal life is so shit it is absurd.

I had to settle in court, for now. Had to be 'realistic' by looking at the current circumstances and lack of evidence, not how they came about...like removing my child with no consent via parental responsibility, or failing to return him as per the court order that existed at the time. I tried my best in limited circumstances.

I don't have enough capacity to say much else on the subject at the moment, except that "it's not your fault" is vapid reassurance. Failure is failure. My son now resides with his father, I am surrounded by abusers and exhausted.


The fight will go on though, I will get him home.

To stop myself from having a complete breakdown I have been submersing myself in work, in trying to make one aspect of life somewhat fruitful.

So don't run away coz its all dark on the blog, the coming posts will be more positive.

Thursday, 30 July 2015

The Book


Of Bloody Reflections, has been leavening in its file since the equinox/eclipse. I've hardly poked at it all, see, last time I finished in 2013 I was all caught up in project completion and I submitted too soon. Way too soon. I committed a cardinal sin, one which must clog up the slush piles of agents and publishers world wide. Sorry about that, dears.

Thing is: I'm serious. This is my career. I am going to, after years more to come of building audiance and polishing voice and skill, make a living. This takes time, and wit, and luck.

I aint got luck. My wits are healing. I'm giving it time, I'm working on my patience. I listen to advice.

In this time I've let the poetry flow, on paper, in performance, and read others, and worked on marketing ideas. I've created a bit of promo material that people responded well to but needs further development. I've been poetry busking and made £35 in a couple of hours, leaving me with an actual profit from poetry (astounding). I've met a lot of wonderful poets, writers and storytellers. I've jammed poetry with musicians.

I've begun the second and concluding book, Refractions of Fire, and worked more on the synopsis for that and pondered the themes.

I've drafted my submission package. I've begun to draw up a list of suitable agents.

Now it's time to open that file again. To give it a thorough, critical read through. To tidy up loose words and threads, and I suspect to pull The End into a better alignment. To ask myself honestly and without fear of failure or narcissistic grandeur: Is it ready? Is it viable?

Events in my personal life have left me with little confidence but I can not and will not let that hinder progress. Resilience is a major factor of success.

Then it will be time to polish that submission package and get rejected again...with hope, with acceptance, with a willingness to get stronger.

It's almost time to burn.