As I entered the sixties life was changing. I was still too young to appreciate how much. I still didn’t know where babies came from even though at eleven there was another addition to the family when my brother was born. My dad took us out for a drive and by the time we got home he had arrived. This ignorance lasted until I was almost fourteen when a precocious friend who was much mature than the rest of us informed us in great detail how babies were conceived. We reacted with disbelief. There was no way my parents indulged in such gross behaviour. However that turned out not to be true when my only sister arrived when I was thirteen.

I had by now started grammar school. I became friends with an English girl from Liverpool who had come to live over here. We are still friends 54 years later. Together we got into a lot of mischief. We were both rebellious and didn’t appreciate being told what to do. She was the first to have her ears pierced and the first to go for a geometric Mary Quant hairstyle. Despite both of us being intelligent we were not studious so tended never to make it to the top of the class. However I excelled at debates and on any occasions where I could argue against the status quo. I also had a vivid imagination and my essays always were interesting to say the least.

I disliked most things about school and had little respect for many of the teachers. Our history teacher smelt of alcohol, our French teacher spent her time talking about golf and most were anything but inspiring. The one exception was the English teacher who awakened my interest in literature. She spoke with passion and talked to us as if we were adults and not children.

I scraped though junior certificate with average marks and no one was surprised. Most of my studying was done with a copy of Jackie hidden beneath my books. Jackie having replaced Bunty and Judy as my must have magazine.

When I was 14 for the third time in my life I almost said good bye to this world. Walking with a friend at a local bathing place, called the slope, we decided to walk along a ledge during a full tide. I was wearing a heavy tweed coat ( it was wintertime ). Halfway along the ledge I slipped and went into the water up to my neck. My friend tried to pull me from the water. However the tweed coat was now twice the weight and pulling me down. I was out of my depth, couldn’t swim and the water was freezing. All I could think of was that my mother was going to kill me for ruining the expensive coat. I grimly held on to the ledge as my friend pulled and hauled. Luckily a passer by glanced over the wall and quickly rushed to our assistance. Back on terra firma I had one of the longest walks of my life as I headed home, water dripping from everywhere. The coat had stretched so much with the water it was now around my feet.

Busses played a huge part in my social life in the early sixties. I took a bus to and from school. That was were romance blossomed as all schools in the area used the same busses. It took at least half an hour to get to Newry and we picked up all the students in Warrenpoint on our way. Some of the busses came from Kilkeel. Childhood romances began and ended on the busses. When I was twelve my mum found a diary in which I had written ‘ Terry has been my boyfriend for six months’ I was banned from seeing Terry and poor Terry was warned off by my dad. Another young man who had a huge crush was only able to show his affection by teasing me and pulling my hair.  We are still friends fifty years later.

When I was fourteen I got my first summer job working in a Warrenpoint chemist. I got paid £3 per week and I loved it. I couldn’t wait to get into work in the mornings. Ten o’clock was tea time and my job was to pick the pastries from the bakery next store. How I loved that. I worked along side a real character, Uncle Charlie, as he was known to everyone. On one occasion a customer came into the shop asking for a packet of Durex. I hadn’t a clue what that was but as was the practice I headed for the drawer marked D ( it was a simple system in those days ). Unable to find  it I shouted the length of the shop.’ Charlie, where do we keep  the Durex?’ Any chatter in the shop stopped. I watched as Charlie told the now hugely embarrassed customer that we did not stock her requirements. This was followed by an even more embarrassed Charlie explaining to me that as this was a catholic shop we did not sell Durex or for that matter the pill. I went to my precocious friend who furthered my sex education with an explanation as to what a condom was.  I was beginning to wonder if this sex thing sounded worth the effort.

After 6 weeks I headed for Belfast with my best friend and blew my wages  in C&A ‘s. I remember one of my purchases was a pink sponge petticoat. This was worn under a skirt to make it sticky out. Not sure that was a good buy. It was uncomfortable to sit on, extremely warm and impossible to wash. Those were the days. Twist dresses were also in fashion as were reefer jackets. Fashion was about to change and Mary Quant was influencing the change. The Beatles were influencing the pop charts. Every Sunday we recorded Pick of the Pops on a large tape recorder that used large tapes and then played them over and over till my dad said ‘no more’ My friend had a record player and we bought our first single together. It was I think three shillings and four pence and it was Peter and Gordon’s ‘ Please lock me away’ Boys were becoming more interesting and much of our conversation was about the latest loves of our lives. Summers were spent hanging out on the roof of the baths at Warrenpoint. Radio Caroline played in the background as we sun bathed and enjoyed the banter. No drinks, no drugs but I hate to admit it a lot of smoking. We were unaware of the danger back in the sixties and we felt very sophisticated as we puffed on our Gold Leaf.

I went to a catholic primary school which was mixed for the first year and then the boys went to the school down the road. The nuns were strict and preached hell fire and damnation. I remember going home on many occasions unable to sleep after some of the stories I was told. The most frightening one I remember was that at some stage the world would be plunged into darkness and Jesus would descend and pick out those who were good enough to go to heaven. You can imagine what it was like when there was a power cut and there were quite a lot of those in the fifties. For years I hated the dark and needed to sleep with a light. I now understand how the Catholic Church managed to keep us in line, we were terrified. 

On one occasion I brought my picture collection of famous ballet dancers into school. I brought pictures of dancers like Margot Fontayne and Alicia Markova, only to have them confiscated by Sr Paul who deemed them immodest. They were wearing fecking tutus!!! I never got them back and I’m still fuming that she took them.

As I was approaching my final year at primary school, there was an outbreak of tuberculosis in my class. Those unfortunate fellow students who contracted TB developed large lumps on the knee joints and in the neck. Once diagnosed, at least ten pupils were dispatched to either Purdysburn or Forster Green where they were kept in isolation for at least six months. A frightening situation. Thankfully they all recovered. There were various explanations but I don’t think it was ever ascertained where the outbreak originated. Those of us who were not affected were under extreme scrutiny for some time. Although I escaped and did not contract the disease I ended up back in hospital at aged ten following complications from my appendix operation. Bikinis were definitely not on my shopping list for swim wear. Scars in those days were large and unsightly.

Eleven plus was looming large and I was advised to take the so called ‘sick exam’. Not sure whether it was considered easier or was just held later to give a chance for complete recovery, but I was determined not to have any concessions and proceeded with the normal exam. It turns out my future husband took the exam in the same room. We were from different schools and would not actually meet for another six years. I passed, he failed. Guess who’s the Professor now?

Television was becoming more varied and more programmes were being broadcast. Programmes like the Billy Cotton show featuring the politically incorrect Black and White minstrels, This is Your Life, Dixon of Dock Green and of course Dr Who which I watched from behind a sofa. My Aunt Alice who quite often looked after us always kept a tea towel handy. When the television Toppers, a troop of dancers in very modest swimsuits appeared, she put the tea towel over the TV set so that us children wouldn’t be corrupted. Aunt Alice was a big busted woman, who wore an angora berry even when indoors, and always had a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. The ash always seemed to collect on her ample bosom.

When the local priest called, as they did in those days, we could tell it was him. He was deaf as a post and he couldn’t hear the bell so he just kept pressing it until someone answered. This was a signal to turn off the TV in case he saw something that he would consider unsuitable. I was often reminded of the time when I was about three and I announced to him that ‘my mammy drinks wickey’ (whiskey). My mum had a little sip when she wasn’t feeling well. My dad had always believed that when we were sick that a little whiskey with hot water and sugar was the answer. Probably be seen as child abuse in today’s politically correct world but it helped us sleep and we definitely felt better. Hic! Thankfully his hearing aid was whistling like a kettle so the remark went unnoticed, or so my mother hoped.

I was a precocious child. Stubborn and outspoken. On another occasion when again having a visit from a local priest, he remarked on the lovely wheaten bread my mum served up. Did you make that yourself Patricia? he asked. I did father she said without blinking an eyelid. “No you didn’t mammy” I said, “you bought that in the bakery.” There was an embarrassed silence as both pretended not to hear what had just been said.

My recollection of the weather in the fifties was of warm summers, cold winters and very bad storms. On numerous occasions in the winter, I remember sitting by the fire in the dark as the wind howled around the house, and listened to the sound of the trees across in the meadow crashing to the ground. Electric wires lay exposed across main roads and travel was limited. My father as part of his duties as Town Surveyor would be called out and we waited until the early hours of the morning for his safe return. I would wait until the lights of his car lit up my bedroom as he pulled into the garage at the back of the house and until then sleep was impossible.

I must have always liked writing. At the age of nine I wrote an essay for a local competition. I think it was for the RSPCA. I won first prize in my age group and my prize was a book. I also liked drama and as a child played Mustardseed in A Midsummer Nights Dream. We took part in the all Ireland Drama festival at Athlone and came in first. My friends and I used to put on our own concerts for family and friends with my Aunt Susie making the costumes and even rigging up a stage with curtains that opened and closed. We sang the songs popular at the time, by artists such as Doris Day, Perry Como ,Pat Boone to name few.

One of our favourites Buddy Holly was killed in a plane crash in February 1959.

Although never a football fan I was in bed with chicken pox in February in 1958 when the news of the Munich disaster was broadcast. I was listening on a transistor radio. I knew the names as my dad was a great fan and I remember running downstairs to tell him the sad news. I think it was a Sony transistor and it opened a whole new world as I worked my way down the dial stopping whenever I heard English. That was when I discovered Radio Luxenbourg.

In the fifties fashion was becoming more important. After the austerity of the post war period, Dior and Chanel were bringing out new styles and though too young to appreciate I can remember my mum always looking smart in her longer length dresses and neat fitted costumes.

In 1960 I started grammar school. Another stage in my life was beckoning.

Politics were never discussed in my house or at least not in front of us children. Until this attack at the bus depot, which I reckon was 1956, we were oblivious to what was going on in Northern Ireland politics. We were, I think what is now referred to as castle catholics. We were happy with the status quo but others around us were awakening to the fact that there was a need for change. My dad was a staunch GAA supporter and I accompanied him with my brothers to matches in Croke Park. I was there when in 1961 Down won the all Ireland championship and brought the Sam Maguire across the border. I hate to hear the GAA equated with terrorism by it’s critics, as this would have upset my dad so much. The explosion, in a peaceful village like Rostrevor, was the start of a bombing campaign along the border. It fizzled out and for many years things remained calm until a certain young preacher called Paisley appeared on the scene. 

 
I was actually very lucky being born in 1949. The war now over, the Labour government, with the vision of Aneurin Bevan introduced the National Health Service. The welfare state was introduced in Northern Ireland and my siblings and I were able to enjoy the benefits of free education and avail of free health care from the cradle to the grave. With free education the way was open for those who wanted to better themselves and challenge those who had held the majority at Stormont for almost 40 years. I had to avail of that health service earlier than I would have wanted, when at age of seven, I was rushed to hospital with a septic appendix. I knew even at age seven I was seriously ill when a priest appeared at my bedside and administered the last rites. Never thought much of the Catholic Church after that. My opinion would be justified in years to come. What were they thinking? Frightening a seven year old? Unlike today, when most patients are discharged within twenty four hours I remained in hospital for two weeks followed by bed rest for another two weeks at home. Visiting hours were extremely strict. I remember to this day feeling that I had been abandoned by my parents and refusing to speak to them when they did visit. I often wonder if that episode in my life contributed to situations I found myself in, during later life.  
 

Causeywater River at Kilfeaghan

My dad was the local town surveyor and many times I accompanied him while he worked. I often went with him to a water source at Kilfeggan. A long trek up the side of the mountain and then across a river. Then a long walk to make sure that the good people of Warrenpoint were not having any water problems. Well, with their drinking water anyway. At the top in a ramshackle cottage lived an old farmer called Dan White. He lived there through all weathers with his collie. He grew potatoes in the clean mountain soil. We left with a bag of them and they were delicious, boiled in their skins and eaten with a knob of butter. Nothing like them in the shops today. While on the mountain my dad used to scare us by telling us of an American plane that crashed in a bog on the mountain. He told us that their ghosts roamed the area and we had better beware. It was very quiet up there and we were very gullible. In later years I did learn that there was some truth in this and that an American plane had indeed crashed in the Mournes, only closer to Annalong. 
 

Typical inside of 1950’s cottage in the Mournes.

 I also accompanied my father on a survey of the outlying districts of the area one summer in 1956 /57. We visited tiny little cottages where peat fires were lit in the kitchen and the lady of the house or ‘bean án Tí’ wore a long black dress with a shawl. An occasional chicken wandered in and out of the kitchen in one of the houses. I had no problems recently when out canvassing and was confronted with a chicken in a suburban front garden. There was no electricity and the toilet was an outhouse at the back. When offered tea I refused because they all had such dirty hands. I didn’t appreciate how hard life was for them trying to make a living from the soil. The lanes and fields round these cottages smelt of wild flowers and on a sunny summer’s day it was idyllic. We brought a Volcano kettle with us and dad made us tea and we ate mikado bickies. Some things don’t change. You can still buy both the mikado biscuits and the Volcano kettle. 
 

I remember life in the fifties as colourless. Everything was painted brown or green. The floors were covered in oilcloth. Everything symbolised the austerity of the time. Rationing was still in force and Britain was recovering from the war. The sixties were to change all that. Flower power, the Beatles. Hippies,Mods and rockers. ( Part Three on Vixens tomorrow…) 
 

Volcano Kettle.

I slid into this world on Valentine’s Day 1949. I say slid as I weighed only 5lbs 5ozs and probably my mother didn’t need to push too much to introduce me to the world. However I can’t have looked too healthy as I was baptised the next day 15 February to be on the safe side. I was called Ann Patricia Valerie and I was born under the sign of Aquarius, the water carrier. This was fortunate as a river ran along the side of Rose Cottage, where I was born, and ran out into the nearby Carlingford Lough. Ironic also, as I never learned to swim and have had a lifelong fear of water.  

Carlingford Lough (from doeni.gov.uk)

 
The cottage is still standing but we moved from there when I was two, to a large Victorian terraced house which was rented from the local parish. It looked over a large estate which belonged to the Bowes- Lyon family. It is now Kilbrony Park having been taken over by the local council. Many beautiful Arab horses roamed the huge expanse of meadow. In spring the ground was covered in daffodils. It became our own private playground as we grew up. Many happy hours were spent exploring. We lived near the sea and to find out if the tide was in or out all I had to do was stand at my front door. On summer mornings we would head off to the beach for the day unaccompanied, and we wouldn’t come home until we were hungry. I never went out of my depth and despite all those hours splashing around in the water I still can’t swim. 

 
The house we moved into had been a boarding house run by two elderly sisters and each upstairs room had a bell which had been used to summon the servants from ‘below stairs’. Great fun to play with but a nightmare for Mum down in the the kitchen. They were taken out during renovations which was such a pity. They should have been saved. 

 
My first memory in my new house was of almost flooding us out. Left to my own devices at about aged three after the arrival of a new baby brother I decided to wash myself. I pulled a small chair over to the hand basin in my Mum’s room, put in the plug and turned on both taps. I guess the overflow didn’t work because I can remember my Mum running out of the kitchen as the water flooded through the ceiling. Four boys arrived over the next 11 years and I began to wonder if they were coming from somewhere in my mother’s bedroom. Every time she disappeared into that room with the local midwife another baby appeared. I was 13 when my sister arrived and this was the first time I worked out where babies came from. 

 
I remember at about the age of five getting our first television. It was an ugly looking box, with a tiny screen and watching it was an ordeal. TVs in those days had a vertical hold and a horizontal hold. The horizontal hold to control the continual lilting to the side and the vertical hold to stop the picture continually dropping off the screen. We got used to watching every programme through a snow storm. Reception was terrible and there was only one station. Nevertheless we had TV nights when the neighbours came in to see something special, had something to eat and money was raised for the local church. 

 
We had a happy childhood. We didn’t need x boxes or TV . We built pretend houses, we skipped, roller skated, explored and read comics and attended the matinee in the local cinema on a Saturday afternoon. Saturday was Bunty and Judy for me and the Victor and the Hotspur for the boys. Food was wholesome but unadventurous. Meals out at an hotel were a treat. There was no central heating in most houses in the fifties. Many mornings I woke up to find ice had formed on the bedroom window. When we were sick a coal fire was lit in our bedroom. Getting dressed was an ordeal when trying to do it while still under the blankets. No duvets in those days. 

 
I attended the local school. Outside toilets with half doors were the order of the day. Can you imagine it in the middle of winter? The water in the toilet was frozen, the toilet paper was Izal, the shiny sort. There was central heating in the school. Why were those crates of milk always set beside them? I can still taste that warm milk. Ugh. 

 
My Dad had a Ford or an Austin, not sure which, and many times we travelled with him to Dundalk to smuggle home sugar and butter which were still rationed in the North. We thought it was a great game and I’m sure the customs officer who asked ‘anything to declare’ knew we were sitting on something. On one occasion while on our foray for food, my brother leaned on the back door of the car. There were no safety locks in those days. He obviously flipped the handle and disappeared out the door. Luckily the car wasn’t going to fast. ‘Dad, Dad,’ I shouted, as I looked out the back window to see my brother lying on the road. Seems hysterically funny now but not so then. After the once over in Daisy Hill he was released with a slight concussion.  
 

On a final note bearing in mind what is happening in 2014. The twelfth was held in Rostrevor on one occasion. Shopkeepers of every denomination had their stalls out selling Smyths lemonade and sandwiches for those parading and watching the parade. Our local milkman, an Orangeman, delivered the milk the night before, apologising profusely for the early delivery. My lovely granny who owned a pub in Camlough was visiting. As the parade passed our garden she waved and was acknowledged by a lot of the marchers as many were her customers. I remember thinking she was like the Queen.  
The fifties were an innocent time but we were now heading for the sixties. One night a loud explosion shook our house. A bomb had blown up a U.T.A bus in the nearby depot.

( Part Two of this series up tomorrow) 
 

Sinn Féin have again caused controversy over “IRA Undefeated Army” items available from their bookshop, with political parties and victims campaigners calling for the party to remove them from sale.

Ranging from t shirts to badges and fridge magnets, accompanied by images of IRA gunman and the message “undefeated army”, the memorabilia is available for sale in Sinn Féin shops North and South, and on their online webpage.

Ulster Unionist MLA Michael Copeland, speaking to Vixens said; ”

“Firstly, this demonstrates a stunning lack of compassion for the victims of IRA terror.  Browsing Sinn Fein’s online shop is a terrifying insight into their idea of reconciliation.  How could anyone not see how items like this would be deeply hurtful and distressing to victims and their families? It is sickening that such items are being sold to keep the lights on at Connolly House.

“What sort of message does this send out to our children?

“Secondly, what does this even mean?  IRA Undefeated Army?  Is this the same IRA which decommissioned weapons and signed up to power sharing at Stormont?  The same IRA whose former Commander this year toasted the Queen at Windsor Castle?’

Victims campaigner Ann Travers, whose sister Mary was shot dead by the IRA leaving mass in 1983, said “Glorifying murder and loss of life is surely where we want to move away from.  This is yet another example of Sinn Féin’s lack of mindfulness for all of the IRA’s victims and indeed those who suffered violence and lost loved ones from Loyalist Paramilitaries.  I am absolutely disgusted when Gerry Adams talks about the Hunger Strike March today in Derrylin being carried out in a “dignified fashion”.  There is nothing dignified about these crass t shirts etc. – and if Sinn Féin are serious about reaching out – they will withdraw them from sale immediately.”

A spokesperson for Fianna Fail said “I believe these mugs are an insult to the many families across the island of Ireland who lost members of their families due to heedless and needless IRA violence and murder.There are still families who do not know where their loved ones are buried .It would be in the interest of Sinn Féin to address those issues instead of selling war crime memorabilia”.

Sinn Féin stand to make money from the sale of items relating to the ongoing crisis in Gaza, Vixens has learned.  (UPDATE) – They have also marked up their prices on items from our enquiries yesterday.

A number of items relating to Palestine are on sale online in the Sinn Féin Bookshop, and in their shops in Parnell Square and on the Falls Road Belfast.

Sales of the items have increased in recent weeks, due to public interest in the attacks ongoing by Israel on the Gaza strip, with the result that jerseys on sale are almost sold out.  The party have been supportive of Gaza, and criticised Israel in recent weeks. The Palestinian Ambassador, Ahmad Abdelrazek, is due to speak at the party’s Hunger Strike Commemoration in Derrylin on Sunday.

Vixens contacted the Sinn Féin Bookshop in Dublin to enquire if the party had many items left.  “We are finding it hard to keep up with demand”, a staff member said.

When asked if proceeds from the sale of the items was going to Gaza, the shop worker confirmed that 3 Euro per jersey, 20% from sale of Palestinian scarves, and 50% from sale of flags was being donated.  He did not inform us which organisation would benefit from the percentages donated.

Sinn Féin stand to make more than their costs on the sale of the items, meaning that the party will benefit from the upsurge in sales, due to public interest increasing.

Ulster Unionist MLA MIchael Copeland, commenting after viewing the items for sale, said,

“It is absolutely shameful if anything less than 100% of the money being made on these items is not going to a charity such as the Red Cross which is delivering humanitarian aid in the region. 

    

“Sinn Fein also needs to make clear exactly what they mean by “Gaza”.  There should be no doubt that the money being donated is going anywhere other than a registered Non-Government Agency providing humanitarian aid to civilians.’  

On the 12th July  past my 17 year old niece headed into town to meet up with her Mum and Aunt. As she walked down Chapel lane she came upon the scene of an old man (whom she presumed to be homeless) being assaulted by two youths as he sat outside St. Mary’s Chapel.  The two young men thuggishly stamped on the hands of the old man whilst demanding the money he held.  The most distressing sight was of the old man’s tears which depicted his vulnerability and their lack of compassion.    Too afraid to intervene on his behalf my niece looked around at the passers-by, amongst them worshippers entering St.Mary’s Chapel (to pray no doubt for their own souls and that of their dead) , in the hope that an adult would come to the aid of the victim.  No one did. My niece looked on helpless as the two young men successfully relieved the old man from his money and headed towards the bookies.   

My niece distressed at what she had witnessed ran to meet her Mum.  On hearing the account of what happened they rushed to the scene but the old man had moved on.  The two accused however were still in the bookies spending their booty. My younger sister rang the police whilst the other stood watch at the door.  Given it was the 12th July they assumed there would be a substantial police presence in the town, and a patrol car could easily swing round to the scene and at least apprehend the two and question them. This would at least send the message that the assault on a vulnerable old homeless man would not go unnoticed by the public. Unfortunately by the time the police responded the two youths had also left the scene no doubt with the impression that the plight of an old man was of no concern to the good citizens of the city particularly, the good Christian citizens of the city.  

There is something profoundly hypocritical and revealing about the indifference of the worshippers attending Mass in St. Mary’s Chapel that day to the plight of the old man. Those who scurried passed the injured victim and into the chapel to ask their God to take note of their good deeds, release a few souls from purgatory or build up their fare for an express journey to heaven, forgot all about the story of the Good Samaritan. A parable based on humanity and human concern for a fellow human being; the parable tells the story of a passer-by who stops to help a vulnerable and injured man, possibly a victim of assault similar to the one of the homeless man. Unfortunately for those who turned their eyes from the scene  their God will have borne witness to their  hypocrisy and absence of love for their fellow man and ironically their fare to heaven may just have risen in price; or indeed their stay in purgatory just been extended by a few thousand years or  prayers. 

My mother has not changed her mind on the selfish act of suicide – her words not mine. However she now realises that people can conceal and hide what they’re doing and how they’re feeling.

My eldest daughter still hates her sister and resents being a victim, and she’s angry, very angry  –  I or I should say we couldn’t relate to this, so as parents we paid for counselling for her. We also asked her not to speak to others about what happened. She’s resents this, saying we’re dishonest and pretending it never happened, her words, not mine. We’re not. Our youngest daughter has her whole life ahead of her, looking back we never want her to feel ashamed of what she done, what has happened, the position she found herself in, or worried about what others think.

My 14 year old is receiving help from a statutory group. They’re very much following textbooks in assisting her, which as a parent I find frustrating, textbooks don’t have all the answers or make allowances for individuals. We are waiting for an appointment for further assessments for a number of areas including depression, the autism spectrum, dyspraxia and bi-polar. As they say every little helps! They believe she was being groomed by someone. She has confided in us she shared her instagram account with a stranger. Shocking isn’t it? We never knew. They have stated the person may  have encouraged her to end her life. If you saw her account, you’d concur with this. She now has a basic phone, no internet but now the school holidays are upon us for an hour a day we allow her to make contact with her friends on facebook. Either her dad or myself sit with her – always. I recommend as a parent to be aware of the security on all your internet devices and do not be afraid to challenge and question your child. Our pc, our 2 laptops, our Sky, our BT broadband, our phones all had parental controls on them, password protected. The Hudl had been a Christmas pressie, we had forgotten to update its settings. More importantly don’t fall into our trap of assuming just because one child obeyed the rules of the home that obviously the other one will! It’s a hard lesson to learn.

What about me? A number of weeks ago my daughter appeared highly agitated, aggressive and with fully dilated pupils. I first of all contacted my optician, who told me I should have my daughter tested for drugs. I was shocked, I’d not thought that!!!!   I liaised with our family doctor, who  wanted a drug test done and my daughter’s school and a counsellor contacted immediately. What!!! How could i be so blind. I then asked my daughter the direct question

“Have you taken drugs?”

The silence continued for several days.  I’d approached my daughter’s mental health team, as my doctor suggested, who arranged an urgent appointment. The result of the meeting. I’d offended my 14 year old child.

Are you sitting down? Subsequently I’m “an over-anxious mother, that needs contained.” Counselling is being arranged for me. I’m sorry, but with the experiences we’ve had, anyone would be anxious.  Deep breath and carry on.

We’ve concerns for her future.  It’s devastating.  We can’t understand why this happened and there are no guarantees for her future well-being and good mental health. We can’t properly arm her with coping mechanisms, we can’t teach her that so much of what has happened in her life is normal and it isn’t the end of the world if mistakes are made. We can’t fully equip her for the long road ahead BUT we can show her love and continue like we’ve always done to tell her everyday that we love her.

Vixens hopes that this family, and particularly the young woman, continue to receive help and support as they have done to date.  We would like to thank our contributor this week for her honest and moving account, and wish her all the best for the road ahead.