The Magic Roundabout

I've always assumed blogs are a place to voice what it is that's on your mind, with an audience, or without. You still get to say what it is you need to. With that in mind, I can see the appeal, its like therapy without the psychiatrist, which is always going to appeal to human nature. A safe place of sorts; which is ironic considering you can bare your soul on the internet and leave yourself more vulnerable than ever.

For me, blogging is a new concept, a way to share my experiences, feelings and thoughts, in the hope that other people can stumble forwards with me, putting positives over negatives. I suppose that is what this is all about. Finding myself. I'm Francesca Barker, I'm 26 years old. That's as far as I have got in terms of understanding who I am. I have a stack of paperwork that dictates who Francesca Barker is, a degree, a criminal conviction, a mental health problem, a business. This is a journey of self discovery, stepping away from labels, assumptions and expectations.

My first blog is aptly titled "The Magic Roundabout" - my life moves in cycles, where I drive myself forward with immense vigor and determination only to throw it all away and press the self destruct button. It has taken me a very long time to recognize this destructive pattern, however, its one thing to recognize and another to make a change. I think I have lived my life as a coward to a certain extent, certainly playing the part of the victim - which is easy to do if the perpetrator and the victim are the same person. You find yourself in a relentless game of table tennis of good and bad, truth and lies and it gets tiring.

I have known for a long time the issues that have plagued me, I have been in denial, shame. It is a hard fact to accept that your mistakes, and the pain in your life, is cause and consequence of the bad choices you have made. My biggest mistake was thinking I could do this alone. Don't ever be ashamed to ask for help, whether its a cry standing on top of a railway bridge (and believe me, it has been) or a cry that falls on deaf ears, there is ALWAYS someone who can shine a light into the darkness.

I was lost as a child, buried in thoughts and feelings out of my grasp, and its a sad fact that it took a court case at the age of 26 for my history to unravel and for me to find out the dark truth about my past and the stones that paved the way for me to fall apart.

I'm Francesca Barker, but before that, I was Francesca Hall. Daughter of a prostitute, daughter of an alcoholic with a drug problem. Daughter of a violent bloodline. Horrible ghosts filled the court room when I heard my barrister play out my sad story like it was a pantomime. The thought of going to prison was even more abhorrent as I would have to take all these demons with me, to sit and fester leading me to a darker place than I was already in.
On Christmas Eve 2012, I picked up a file from my GP to pass onto my solicitor. Inside that file was a child court case records, pages and pages about a mother and father who beat each other and their children. A poignant paragraph read "Mrs Hall became pregnant with Francesca, she was drinking heavily and was asking for an abortion" Merry Christmas Fran, the answer to your adoption lies here.
I read these horror stories and all I could think to myself was, oh dear, the apple doesn't fall that far from the tree. My Mum wasn't kidding when she said I was "damaged goods" (another story for another day perhaps!)
This is the first time I have been so vocal about what I read in those documents, this is why blogging seemed the appropriate outlet, if it's just words on a page, then it's a little less admission than saying it aloud. Although, I do believe that in order to vent your demons, you have to face them and exorcise them in order to be free.

It's safe to say that my early childhood can be summarized in a paragraph taken directly from the child court case records "Having been told of the decision to make the children Wards of Court, Mr Hall telephoned threatening to kill himself and was later found holding a knife with Francesca in his care.....there is a history of very poor parenting and domestic violence which has given rise to grave concern for the safety of the children"
This is a man who allowed his daughter to be "passed around" like a Christmas toy if you know what I mean!!!
Pretty harrowing stuff to be reading the night before Christmas, but I was very much of the attitude, of 'I deserve this' - that was 9 months ago, and I am aware that wasn't the right mind set, but amidst a pending sentencing in the crown court, the non-existence of a support network, not a family member in sight, it was pretty hard not to grab it with both hands and think THIS IS ME. It wasn't nurture, and to be honest, thats a debatable concept within my family anyway, it was most certainly nature.

I'm still left with the begging question, is this me? Was I destined to end up here? With more in common with my birth mother than my adoptive mother, because really, when playing visa verca, it's concerning. It's awful and ironic that I've spent my life in awe of my adoptive mother, a great woman if somewhat concrete, she is amazing, and I secretly harbor a gratitude for what she gave me. Perhaps I am actually the daughter of Bridie Kehoe (stick that in google for a laugh) a druggie, with a list of convictions as long as your arm, diagnosed with the same mental health disorder as me. It's hard not to feel terrified of who you really are.

Bridie Kehoe. Mother. Drug addict. Murderer - told you to google her. I think she can be summarized in one word - monster.
I found myself standing in the dock in the court room drawing comparisons from her life and mine, her court file reads like fiction, excuses after excuses for her bad behaviour, her mistakes, immense mitigating circumstances to ensure she got a softer sentence. I'm standing there thinking, f*** me, its a mirror image.
There is one difference between me and her. I accept that I did wrong. I accept it was my bad choices. Whilst I know 101 things lead me down the road to self destruction, I make no excuses for it. But that biggest difference between my murderer mother and me? I am sorry for what I did and for those I hurt. Shes rotting in a prison somewhere with blood on her hands and no children in sight, and you can't help but think... good.

Perhaps your reading this thinking I'm being too harsh, it's easy for me to type with anger seeping into the page because I am angry. I am angry she didn't change. Didn't want to. Didn't seize the help she was offered with both hands. Everyone has the chance to make life better. To be the person you want to be. For yourself, for your children, for your wife.
I stood in court room with one thought firmly in my mind, if I am lucky enough to get a second chance, I will never make the same mistake again. I will change. I will take every inch of help that is offered and I will figure out who the hell I am so there is no need to live this life of fake anymore.

Second chances are few and fare between, but life begins again when you make it so.


If you are struggling with anytime similar, talk to someone! Talk to me, just talk