How do you even begin to write about twenty five years of pure chaos and hurt? Particularly when that pain is caused by your mum, who you love beyond any descriptive word.

 

The level of abnormality, destruction and utter tragedy will be staggering to read, it is consistent and relentless.

 

But as I begin my story, in the heart of East London, I write from that child’s perspective, the child who adored his mum and didn’t know anything different than the madness that surrounded him. Didn’t know any different than to live in a crack house surrounded by violence.

It’s only through our separation that my mind began to process our life together, but I was swallowed by the care system, which in itself became a battle, a battle which inflicted more scars.

 

One would think the story would be over, but it would be far from it...

 

The chaos and destruction of mum’s life continued to find me, even as a young man.

Battling the aftershock of my dark childhood, I was now once more firmly in the grip of mum’s destructive world, but this time as a young man, I felt responsible for her.

 

This anguishing carousel would continue for almost another decade until a single shattering event brought it to a halt.....