First Memory: Fear

I’ve started writing my story, and this is where it begins.

Not with warmth.

Not with comfort.

With fear.

I was about five. Maybe younger. I remember trying to pick up a dog — just a kid being a kid. It slipped, hurt its leg… and that’s when it started.

Violence.

Not a telling off. Not a slap. A proper beating. Followed by being locked in a cupboard. No understanding of why — just fear and confusion.

That wasn’t a one-off. That was the world.

My mother — or Chris, as I was told to call her — lived as a man. I was coached into calling her “Dad,” then told in certain places to call her “Mum.” Get it wrong, and there were consequences.

So as a child, I learned quickly:

👉 Stay quiet

👉 Get it right

👉 Don’t upset the system

Even if you don’t understand it.

There were drugs. Chaos. Police raids. Being left outside for hours not knowing if I’d get back in. Watching her inject, crying, telling me:

“This isn’t fun. Promise me you’ll never do this.”

And I didn’t. Not that way.

There were moments of kindness too. A foster carer who showed me something close to love. Neighbours who’d take me in when I was locked out.

But mostly, it was survival.

Looking back now, what stays with me isn’t just the violence.

It’s the confusion.

The instability.

The feeling of trying to make sense of a world that didn’t make sense.

And the loneliness.

That was constant.

This is just the beginning.

More to come.