My Dear Mother
My dear mother is what you might call "over protective". Being her first spawn, but ending up being the only girl, and having 7 brothers (three older half-brothers, four younger full brothers), I was treated differently.

I once, on my birthday, asked to go to my friend's house, four doors down, (lived in lovely suburbian north buckingshire btw, not council estate ghetto), I was told it was "too late".

The time was quarter past five. My birthday is in June, so it was still full daylight, and would be for hours.

Oh, and it was my fifteenth birthday.

I could go on, for years actually, various things, screaming at my best friend for swearing and banning me from seeing her again (we were six), spending four hours screeching at me when I walked 500 metres across a milton keynes carpark to get to her car when I should have called her, I could have been murdered (I was on a very rare date, with a BOY, and she made the comment that because he didn't walk me across that well lit car park, that he wanted me to get killed, he probably wouldn't even bother turning up to my funeral, blah blah blah, this is three months before my 16th birthday.)

The final straw was her ripping my room apart to find my diary, which was in a locked box, then smashing my mobile phone (which I had bought with the money I earned from my saturday job, and paid for all the calls myself, it was nothing to do with her) then trying to strangle me when it became clear from the contents of said diary that I was depressed and had attempted to off myself after being confined to my room for a month during school holidays for not telling her that the boy I was seeing was my friend's ex. She sent me to a psychiatrist, who after a joint session, sent my mother out of the room and gave me the number for social services to write on the inside of my wrist, under my jumper.

God bless her.

So, like my three older half-brothers, I reached my sixteenth birthday, finished two weeks of GCSE's, packed my stuff in a black bin liner and fucked off to the next county.

Oh, there was police and everything, she dragged them round to my friends houses, threatening my mates because they wouldn't divulge my whereabouts. The police found me, gave me a lecture that I couldn't stay away forever, I was just a kid.

No, of course not *chuckles*. They underestimated the fear of god that my mother puts into me.

I came back to my home town, because I didn't know anyone in the place I had run to. I slept on friends floors with their parents charging me fifty quid a week for the privilege. I survived by getting two jobs, working 19 hours a day, seven days a week, for months, until I couldn't take being in the same town as my mother anymore.

I moved to Norwich, got a flat, got a proper job, became assistant manager at a well known bank, got bored of conforming because I spent my whole life trying to do what I was "supposed to do".

So I left that, and I've been a pole/lapdancer for the last two and a half years.

*claps at her mother's sterling parenting job*

My mother still terrifies me, she caught up with me two and a half years after I ran away, which jumped me right back into counselling. She still tries to run my life, but I use passive agressive ways of getting around that, like moving and not telling her my address, not picking up my phone calls, and registering my home phone as ex-directory. She doesn't know what I do for a living, or that I smoke and drink, or any details of my life. I was out of the country for my twenty-first last year, and she managed to ruin it by (even though I had told her that I was going to be abroad) spending three days straight calling my mobile (which I'd taken for emergencies and left off in my bag) and leaving me furious threatening voicemails about how I'm selfish for not speaking to her on my birthday.

She divorced my father after I left home, and is shacked up with one of her workmates now.

She only took up that job after I left tho.

She's now a prison officer for murderers, rapists and paedophiles in the maximum security prison in Milton Keynes where they sent Ian Huntley and Harold Shipman for a while.

When my friends found that out, they couldn't stop laughing.

Length? It's 8 foot of hard shiny chrome for me to dance around darlings...
( The Baroness The Harlot Pimpernel, Sun 11 Mar 2007, 17:25, closed)