Butterfly (Part II) Trigger Warning
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| Writer and Model - Lexus Bradbury |
I hate eighties music, I literally can't stand the crap. Soon as I hear that electro sound, I'm out. It's like finger nails down a chalk board to me. The music videos aren't much better. Some of it's so vile and sleezy, I daren't listen to it without wearing a condom. Men prancing round on stage, sporting heavy makeup, singing some dirty song about a homosexual encounter they've had. I'm often told it was the fashion back then, yeah ok. I see it clear as day. Fashion was the excuse to dress up as women, wear makeup, and be gay, got ya !! The wives must have been in mad denial about it all.
I was born in 1984. It wasn't the world George Orwell predicted. Celebrities banded together to feed the world. Michael Jackson set himself on fire shooting a Pepsi commercial. And scientists discovered the AIDS virus.
I came from a dirty old town called Oldham. My family all lived close to one another on a council estate called Sholver. If you're not familiar with Oldham, it's a small town about half an hour from Manchester. People always assume I'm from Manchester, but I'm actually from Greater Manchester. They're not the same. Manchester's a big city, whereas Oldham's a little town surrounded by countryside. It's famous for the Hindley and Brady Moors Murders, roughly twenty minutes from where I grew up. The hangover from the murders was still fresh. Parents were scared to death. I often had it drilled into me to be home before the streetlights came on. And to enforce that, my Mum would frighten me to death with stories of what happened to them poor children up on Saddleworth Moors. Oldham was like a world of its own. Check out the video below. It's an honest review that sums the place up perfectly. Whenever I feel homesick, I drop into this video, and remind myself I'm better off out of it.
I had a relatively big family, most people did in the eighties. Seems like people had a lot more children back then. At the head of the table, sat my Nan and Grandad. They had five children in total. Two boys. My Uncle Colin, and my Uncle Sam. And three women. Aunty Jen, Aunt Susan, and my Mother Alison. Then there's the folk that married into the family. My Uncle Pete, who married my Aunty Jen, and my Uncle Frank, who was with my Aunt Susan. And then there was my father Roy, who was with my Mum. Together, our bloodline made up the Bradbury's. I was actually given my fathers surname Harrison at birth, but I consider myself a Bradbury. I've taken the liberty of making a family tree so it's easier to understand.
My Uncle Colin doesn't feature much in my story, because he got sent down for murder the same year I was born. Other than the odd prison visit, and him being allowed out on day release, I didn't see much of him. I was having a nosey on the internet to see if I could find anything in the newspapers about it, this is all I could find.
I'm not going to get into this, because the victim had two children, and I don't think it's fair on them to be digging it all up. It took its toll on my Nan big time. She was a religious lady, but how I remember her, a kind loving lady. She certainly didn't raise her son to do shit like that. It wasn't her fault, but our family name got dragged through the mud over it all. Christine didn't leave Sholver like she said she was going to in the paper. She raised her two children about five minutes walk from where I lived. We saw each other often. The daughter would stare daggers into me, it was mega awkward. I get it, my Uncle killed her Dad, no worries. That being said, Colin was still my Uncle, and he'd have given his life to protect me if he had to.
I lived round the corner from my Nan and Grandad, with my Mum and Dad. Originally, I was living on a street called Swift Road. My Father was only in my life for a brief period. When he was gone, I grew up hearing horror stories of all the bad shit he did while he was with my Mum. My Father already had two daughters with another woman. My Mum, before she was my Mum, was brought in to babysit my Dads girls. One thing led to another between them both, and they had an affair. My Mum caught pregnant with me, and somehow ended up in a full time relationship with my Dad. My Mum told me he didn't want me from the off. She said that when he found out she was pregnant, he kicked her in the stomach, telling her "He didn't want any more fucking kids". Apparently, my Mum began to lose blood and ended up in hospital. The doctors told her she was losing me. But then something remarkable happened. The bleeding stopped. Then the doctors told her, if she continued with the pregnancy, I'd be severely disabled, and being a recovering stroke victim, my Mum risked her life to carry me. My Mum decided to keep the baby, obviously ... Apparently, my Dad tried every trick in the book to get rid of me. Plying my Mum with Gin while pregnant, and then forcing her to take a warm bath. Some stupid old wives tale that he must have heard back in the day. I often wonder if that kick screwed up my gender development. Or maybe it screwed up my brain development, who knows. Course, he will deny it, but I reckon if we were to go back and check was my Mum admitted to hospital with a miscarriage, we will find medical evidence.
How I remember him, he was a frightening strict man. Very tall, longish black hair, arms covered in shit tattoos. He used to make me stand in the corner of the room, facing the wall for hours with my hands on the back of my head. I was only about four, but I remember the cunt well. My arms would go dead from being held up in position for such a long time. I daren't even turn round to see what was going on behind me. I'd hear my Mum sobbing and pleading with him to let me out the corner. You can't even call it discipline, I was a tiny kid. Explain to me, how a toddler will benefit from standing facing the corner of a room all day, with their hands on the back of their head. I thought I remembered it all, but then I had a flashback that came back to me roughly five years ago. It was the last day I saw him as a child. I went many years without remembering the incident I'm about to discuss, but when it came back, it came back in ultra high definition. I remember everything perfectly now.
He'd been at work, I think he was driving taxis at the time. It was a usual day, nothing out of the ordinary. I was sat on the floor in front of the television, waiting for Thomas the Tank Engine to come on. Don't fuck with me when I'm waiting for Thomas the Tank by the way, serious business that. There was some drab mid afternoon documentary on, about some old fire brigade. I remember the camera panning over a black and white picture of all the men in the brigade. I remember we had a Cockatiel that was bald from pulling all its feathers out. There was constant screaming and shouting in the house, so they must have stressed the poor thing to death. I remember we had a little sausage dog that my Mum got rid of. It used to come in my bedroom every morning, and take a shit on the bottom of my bed. I'd be pleading with it not to, because my Mum didn't believe me that the dog was the one doing it. My Mum, genuinely thought I was taking a shit on the bottom of my bed every morning. She'd come in my room and give me a good hiding over it, every single morning. Until one day, after months and months of it, she caught the dog doing it. She got rid of the dog not long after that, the dog paid the price for her guilt and shame.
Thomas the Tank had started when my Father got home. He looked desperate, like a man on the edge. He was screaming and shouting at my Mum, while she pleaded with him to stop for my sake. That's when he pulled out a gun, and pointed it at me. I'll repeat that. My own Father, pulled out a gun, and pointed it at me. A tiny little child, and he pointed a fucking gun at me. He told her he was going to do me while she watched, and then he was going to do her. The gun had a long black barrel, with a dark brown handle. It looked like something out an old Clint Eastwood movie. I don't recall being afraid at the time, it was only years later when it came flooding back, that the incident became scary. My Mother was a grovelling snivelling mess on the floor, frantically putting herself between me and the gun, begging and pleading with him not to shoot me. No child, should ever have to see their Mother like that, it's soul destroying. He was moving the gun around my Mum, repointing it firmly in my direction, I just looked on blankly. My Mum was desperately trying to protect me, moving constantly with the direction of the barrel. He must have got bored with his sadistic game after a few minutes, because he eventually lowered the weapon, and headed upstairs to bed. And just like that, it was over. All because he'd had a bad day at work, and felt tired. When Mum was sure Dad had fallen asleep, she began packing an overnight bag, and we fled to my Nan and Grandads. My Grandad and my Uncle Sam chased him out of Oldham that evening. Apparently, they were smashing up his car with him locked inside like the coward he is. If Grandad and Uncle Sam would have got their hands on him that night, I have no doubt they'd have switched him off. He's very lucky to get away that day, my Uncle particularly, was very protective of me. That was the end of my Fathers involvement in my childhood, well directly anyway.
When I went back home to my Mums the next day, she was a broken woman. I didn't want to go back, I hated it there. I remember having the sense to be good, and as kind as possible. She sat at the back of the house all day, listening to the radio crying. I remember hearing Drive by The Cars on the radio, I've loved that record ever since. She told me if I was good, she'd make us some home made crisps, and The Wizard of Oz was on later that evening. She said she'd let me stay up with her to watch it. I sat on my Mums knee that night, eating soggy, horrible, home made crisps that my Mum had butchered, while watching the movie. I didn't really know what to do for her. Her eyes were visibly red from crying constantly. "It'll be alright Mummy" I told her repeatedly, as we snuggled up for the film.
There's not much trans stuff to mention in this part of the story, other than one thing that may have seemed like nothing at the time. Sometimes, my Mum would take my nappy off for me to have a breathe, and get some fresh air to my bits. You've no doubt been in a house somewhere, with a naked kid running round like a maniac, displaying no shame, having a mad half hour. Well I had shame. I didn't want to see my cock at all. Whenever my Mum would strip me naked, I'd go and hide under the dining room table at the back of the house, waiting for her to cover me up again. I can remember her bringing her mate round who lived next door, showing her how I went and hid. Cheers Mam, make my nakedness even harder why don't you !! This is about as much trans stuff that will feature in this part of the story. I was too young, and there was too much going on.
People often get caught up in the sensational side of a transition, the world's obsessed with it. There's a lot more to my story than that, This is more a story, of someone who's been through a lot, who happens to be trans. Even if I wasn't trans, it's still a hell of a story.
My Dad frightened my Mum long after he left. She directed my primary school to not let me near the outer layer of the fencing in the playground, for fear he'd snatch me. He'd made some idle threats to her, that he was going to have me snatched by some of his taxi mates, and I'd be took off to Pakistan. See he didn't want me, but he didn't want my Mum to have me either. I'd be stood in the school playground, watching the other kids run around free, shitting bricks, wondering if a stranger was going to bundle me into their car, and I'd never see my Mum again. That isn't a normal childhood is it ?
I remember a police lady coming round taking a statement from my Mum about it. We were both scared shitless of him. Just the mention of my Father would send me into a hysterical meltdown. His impact would last a lifetime on my Mum. Maybe I'm only just realising, that she wasn't the only person he left his mark on. Like a yellow stain, that no matter how hard you scrub at, will simply not go away.
Shortly after the gun incident, we moved into my Nan and Grandads house. They'd taken a new job together, running a halfway house for ex cons fresh out of nick. So the plan was, Mum and me would be moving into their old place, and sharing it with my Uncle Sam. I was already familiar with 33 Wells Road before we moved in. My Nan and Grandad lived there for years before heading to the halfway house. I can remember sleeping over, creeping into my Nan and Grandads bedroom early in the morning. Stood at the door, peeping through at their false teeth in glasses of water on their bedside tables. My face a mixture of horror and disgust. Their gummy mouths wide open, snoring, lips flapping with the snores. My first taste of morbid curiosity !!
I was made up to move in there, but sad to see my Nan and Grandad leave Sholver. My Grandad told me years later, that he and my Nan took me from my Mum for six months when I was a baby. Apparently, I cried a lot, and was at serious risk of my Mum hurting me. It probably explains why I was closer with my Grandparents, than I ever was my Mum. The halfway house they moved into, was about an hour up the road, in a place called Wakefield. I spent a good few summers at that house.
It was a big old Victorian style house, four floors with a basement. In the basement ? A POOL TABLE !! I'd usually be found downstairs in the basement, brushing up on my pool. I can still smell the chalk, alcohol, and stale cigarette smoke. All the lads living there were dead nice to me. God knows what they'd done to land themselves in the nick, but they were all sound with me. I can remember sticking my head in the TV room where they all used to gather, and them inviting me in to show me my first porno. A heavily distorted video, of a gorgeous curvy woman, on the screen of an old Ferguson TV. She was covered in blue feathers and pearls, occasionally flashing a humongous pair of tits. I covered my eyes in embarrassment, they all laughed and took the piss out of me the cunts. I felt like Danny from The Shining, going on adventures round the Overlook Hotel, only without the dead twins. I had some great summers down there.
So now, my Nan and Grandad had left Sholver, and my Mum, My Uncle Sam, and me, all lived together in Nan and Grandads old spot, 33 Wells Road. A few doors down on the same street, was my Aunty Jen. She also lived on Wells Road, with her at the time husband, my Uncle Pete, and my two cousins, Nina and Sam. My Aunty Sue lived in Oldham, but not on the same estate. Sue had two children, Paul and Tina. I used to fight like cat and dog with Paul, but he was by far my favourite Cousin.
I didn't see much of Sue Paul and Tina when I was little. I hated going there. The house was a complete shithole, no place for my cousins to be growing up. Tina and Paul had it much worse than I did. I won't get into it, because it's not my story to tell, but they had it hard. I had it hard in a clean home. They had it harder in a shithole. You'd not see them for months on end, then Tina would show up at the door telling my Mum she needed to go see Sue, and sort Paul out for being bad. Tina and Paul both acted up as kids, but who could really blame them, them kids got dragged up.
The incident that really sticks in mind, was Tina showing up saying Paul had bit Sues bad arm. Sue was disabled. Her mind was sound, but her body was fucked. She had no feeling at all in her left arm. I don't know if she had a stroke when she was young like my Mum, or if she was born disabled. Anyway, Paul bit his Mums bad arm. The one she had no sensation in. The one she didn't realised had been bit, until she noticed a bite mark on it. I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh, but I did find it funny, I still do. My Mum didn't make things better really, her answer to everything was always violence. It was always the same process. Mum would stop off at the shop, and buy me a comic book and some sweets to keep me occupied. I'd sit outside Sues house, reading my Beano and scoffing blackjacks, to the sounds of my Mum kicking the crap out of Paul.
It wasn't just Paul that got beats, Tina got them off my Mum too, we all did at some point. We'd gone round one afternoon so my Mum could tidy up Sues house, when my Mum noticed some writing on the wall. It said "Auntie Shaz, is a slag". My Mums middle name was Sharon, the kids called her Aunty Shaz. Whoever wrote it, spelled Aunty, I-E. Tina and Paul were at school at the time, I knew they were in for it when they got home. Paul was the first home from school. My Mum sat on the sofa, sipping her tea, patiently waiting to greet him. No sooner had he got through the door, my Mum asked him to spell Aunty. "A-U-N-T-Y Aunty Shaz" Paul said. My Mum nodded and then let him go about his business. Next through the door was Tina. "Tina, spell Aunty" my Mum quizzed. "A-U-N-T-I-E Aunty Sha" my Mum had already began carting Tina off upstairs, before she'd finished her sentence the poor bitch. I never saw anything, but I heard my Mum beat that girls arse for a good ten minutes up in her room. I just sat on the sofa in Sues living room, looking at Paul. We were both smirking at Tina's monumental fuck up, just relieved it wasn't us.
My Mum was a fierce woman when she was younger. Violence was just a part of her nature. Expelled from secondary school for violence, it was all she ever really knew. Grandad used to talk about it with a smile on his face. He was a mixture of proud that she was his girl, and reluctantly defeated, that he couldn't change her. His Alison was his Alison. Noticeably his favourite of the five kids he had.
Things were cool for a good while, I was living with my Mum and Uncle. My Aunty lived on the same street with my two cousins, and I was having some great holidays at my Nan and Grandads new place. Living with my Uncle Sam, we became very close. He had a lot of time for me. I didn't know what it all meant at the time, but Sam was a full blown alcoholic. Years before I was born, he dated a girl who's parents had their own pub. That's where he must have got the taste for it, because he didn't put it down after that. I'd get up to go to primary school, and he'd be sat in his chair, already chugging back the Strongbow. He never let that come between us though. I have nothing but nice memories of Sam from when I was little. I used to have horrendous nightmares as a kid, I still do. But he would always get up with me in the night, and sit with me colouring pictures, or reading a book until I was tired again. It seems my Mum would palm me off with just about every relative reflecting as I write. She didn't cope with raising me well at all. Sometimes it was as if she resented me. I remember my Uncle Sam grabbing her by her throat one day, after she'd belted me. He told her straight, never to lay a finger on me again. His days were numbered after that.
Like all things in life, nothing lasts forever. The game was about to change in a big way, and not for the better. I was upstairs in my room, when I heard my Mum call me down to the living room. I'd have been about six at the time. I went downstairs and was greeted by my Mum, who was sat with this strange looking woman. All the appearances of a man, but a soft female voice. She sat there with a big happy smile on her face, looking pleased to see me. I didn't really know what to make of this stranger, I'd never seen a woman like her before. Slightly overweight, seemed tall to me at the time, but actually quite small in height, short black curly hair.
"Dan" My Mum said.
"I'd like you to meet my friend Karen"
The story continues next Friday, when I return with Part III.
I overdosed the night I wrote this piece. I was sick for days after writing it. I didn't want to kill myself. I just didn't want to feel the feelings, that remembering it all provokes. All the anger I feel towards both my parents. Then there's the abandonment to deal with. It's quite possible, my gender, and or mental health issues, are largely down to my Father kicking my Mum in the stomach. And he's out there, living his best life, getting away with it all. It's MY head in bits, MY gender I'm having to have surgery to correct. He discarded his child like rubbish, and moved on. Has he been there for me as an adult ? Has he fuck. He couldn't give a toss about any of his kids. I was talking to my oldest sister a few year back, and I challenged her to say one nice thing about him. The best she could come up with was "At least he didn't molest any of us". That's the closest to a compliment she could give him. I'll be going into him again, further down the line in my story, but for now, he was gone.
I didn't ask to be born, I often wish I hadn't been. Neither one of them wanted me. It's a tough pill to swallow.
Roll Credits.
See you next week, but for now, Goo Goo Ga Ga x
