I dreamt of a spectacular party for my sixteenth. From the age of 13/14 I religiously watched MTVs My Super Sweet Sixteen. I’d watch as the spoilt brats spend all their parents money on a car straight from the forecourt and a helicopter flight with all their friends, three overly priced dresses, one for the entrance, one for the first couple of hours then one to leave in. It seemed like a bloody amazing idea when I was younger.
I am 21 now, I have two amazing, healthy children, a lovely home and a loving fiancè (there I go again with accents, still no idea). When I see money in the bank I think of family life, paying for gas, electric, water, food, internet, satellite TV, diesel, insurance…(See my page about moving out – I’m unsure how to link) I don’t see that money as diamond encrusted 22″ alloys on a swanky new Lexus or £12,000 worth of lace drapes to decorate an over sized venue.
My sixteenth was, well I’m not sure. I remember my friend, Siobhan buying me a few little bits, I still have a silver heart necklace that she gave me.
I was living 136 miles north of my mum. I was in the care of my ‘sperm donor’ dad. He’s never been much of a father. He was married to a mentally ill alcoholic woman who the night before my birthday got, like always, ridiculously drunk and threw a glass at my dad. At the time he was asleep, also drunk. In the split second the glass smashed on his head and wine woke him from his snoring, he turned, picked up his glass and threw it back at her. She stumbled and ended up with glass in her finger. It would not stop bleeding. My dad sobered up immediately and tidied up best he could and went off to bed with a pint of water. I went off in an ambulance with the blood smothered drunken excuse of a woman in tow.
I spent 9 hours waiting for her to be assessed and treated. Due to her alcohol intake she was put to the bottom of the nurses priority list.
When she was eventually seen I had to convince staff to treat her, the abusive wreck that she was.
Once we arrived back home I got into my school uniform and like every morning while they were both hungover I took my then 8 year old brother to school. I then went round to the cafe they owned and opened up shop. Then ten minutes before I was due to leave to be in before the bell my dad came through to the cafe and said I could have the day off because I’d been up all night. No “Happy Birthday Darling”.
I was sat making my way through a full English (bacon, sausage, egg, beans, tomatoes, black pudding, mushrooms, toast, fried slice) when I heard a really familiar voice amongst all the northern accents, I noticed it stood out more than usual.
I turned round and my mum and actual father figure, my step father, were stood there. She gave me the biggest cuddle ever. I’ve never been one for affection. Mum knew something was wrong. I sobbed. Like I’ve never sobbed before. We went into town mum wanted to buy me something I wanted, she bought an iPod docking station. I was so tired and overwhelmed. I cried all day. Even eating my McDonald’s that my mum took me out for.
I didn’t want my mum to leave. I didn’t want the day to end. I did not want to go back to caring for those pair of lousy drunks.
That night I went up to the park at the end of the road with 3 litres of cheap, liver rotting cider and drank myself silly. Two lads in my form from school carried me home. I remember them asking which house I lived at, after all I was the new girl, I just kept repeating my dads car number plate. N2 PKD.