I Never Want to See My Mom Again

Lauren Booth reveals why she HATES her mother and never wants to see her again

Schoolgirl: Lauren Booth said she had a miserable childhood because of her mother

Waiting for the hearse to arrive with my grandfather's body in it, Iwent to turn down the thermostat in his kitchen. A voice stopped me inmy tracks.

"Oy! Some of us aren't covered in whale blubber like you, girl! Leave it!" Ah, my mother.

She would still rather call me "girl" than use my real name.That was the first time we'd seen each other in just over a year. Andthe last time I would ever see her again.

You see, that barb about my weight wasn't a one-off; it waspart of a tirade of abuse that started when I was in primary school.And, frankly, I'd had enough of it. I wanted nothing more to do withher.

Now don't get me wrong. I am perfectly aware that few daughters grow up with a female parent as lovely as, say, Mary Poppins.

As a mother of two daughters aged five and seven, I know I'm nota perfect parent myself. All mother-and daughter relationships are aseries of peaks and troughs, where changing life stages and, yes, Iadmit, evenhormones can raise a storm of disharmony at any time.

But I also know that there are some daughters who experience a relationship with their mother toxic enoughto give arsenic a bad name. Mine is...no, was one of those relationships.

It was around two years after my younger sister was born, when I was six, that I sensed a shift in mymother's attitude towards me.

Up until that point she had done her best to be a caring mum ina household with little money, and my father's affairs tearing her upinside.

My father was the actor Tony Booth, most famous for his role in the TV comedy 'Till Death Do Us Part. Butin this era of his life, he was largely unemployed and signing on.

I was far from his first daughter; he had fathered at least fiveothers with three different women. He lived with us, play-wrestled withmy sister and I, and watched the racing on the telly.

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Mommie dearest: Lauren refuses to speak to her mother who she describes as 'toxic' and 'cruel'

My sister was soon given (rightly, for she was small) the bedroom next to my parents while I was put inan icy room as far away as it was possible to be (or so it seemed to me). I soon began to have nightmares,which I now know to be a normal response to a new baby's arrival from a jealous sibling.

It was then that it all began. I had a night light, a gift frommy maternal grandmother to ward off the worst of my night terrors.Except my mother refused to let me have it on.

Her excuse for turning it off was that we had no money and theelectricity was on a meter. So my Gran left me coins to put in themeter at night. My mother still refused to let me have it on.

But the really shocking thing is that to me, her ruthlessrefusal to grant me even a few extra minutes of light seemed to giveher an odd pleasure as her fingers flicked off the light switch.Puzzled, I began to cry more. I'd beg her to leave it.

Heaving with sobs, I'd tell her about my awful nightmares, howwhenever the wind raked the tree branches across the window I wasterrified. She refused to budge.

I then pleaded with her to leave my bedroom door open, even afraction, so there would be some light from the living room at theother end of the flat. Again, she flatly refused.

The first time a child cries out in fear or pain and its motherfails to act is a moment of abject desolation and loneliness. Iremember my mother standing in my bedroom doorway night after nightwith a look ofabsolute fury as I sobbed in terror at the dark, calling me a"snivelling brat".

My nightmares about alligators and pirates under my bed were bad but nothing had prepared my six-year-oldself for the intensity of maternal rejection. It was utterly, utterly devastating.

She seemed disgusted by my efforts to kiss her and apparently repulsed by my constant desire for a hug. Iyearned to throw my arms around her but was for ever rebuffed.

Once, at the age of 11, I remember setting off for school then immediately rushing back to give her anecstatic hug. She sat stiffly while I kissed her, then brushed me off like a biting insect with the words:"Go, go, go!"

Even the mildest of children's rhymes were twisted to fit what appeared to me to be her increasinglyobsessive hatred for me. Remember the poem about the days of the week? I do.

From a young age my mother introduced me to her friends with the line: "Friday's child is loving andgiving, except for Lauren who's snidey and snivelling." Sweet.

Children adapt quickly to each new situation, so I stopped crying and tried hard to be perfect instead. For11 years I was overly polite, formal even, in a desperate bid to please my mother. I did my best at school, Imade my bed and fed the cat.

But nothing was good enough. I always felt my mother was onlyinterested in my little sister ¿ she was always "the poor little thing"while I was the wicked enemy within. When my sister and I inevitablyargued,my mother would silence me by saying: "Why don't you go and live withyour grandmother. She wants you. We don't."

I'm ashamed to say I turned into an awful older sister, eaten up with jealousy at how much my motheradored her youngest child, while the harder I tried to please her, the more my mother seemed to loathe me. Infact, I tried so hard she began to refer to me as a "crawling creep".

So where did this apparent loathing for her first-born comefrom? Was ¿ is ¿ my mother sick, abused, addicted, depressed, evenevil? These were the questions that hovered over my life like amalevolent hornet, always buzzing in the background.

The answer, I am now certain, is: all of the above. Her ownchildhood was hard. Her own mother was adopted by a poor - family inNorth Wales. She divorced her husband when my mother was small and lefther with relatives while my grandmother went out dancing, it seems.

My mother does not talk much of her early childhood. She makesit sound both harsh and poor, that's all. The bits and pieces I do knowhave been mostly gleaned during family rows, and I've often suspectedmy mother of telling such awful stories about the grandmother I lovedjust to put me off her.

The three of us seemed to be caught in a web of hurt, deceit and maternal failure. My mother's storieswere never confirmed by anyone else, but her pain around her own mother was all too clear to see.

I certainly saw how critical my grandmother was of my mother's every word. But then, she was looking out for me.

My mother's feelings for my grandmother eventually turned into acold, vicious, unforgiving disdain, culminating around the time shebecame pregnant with me. At that time, she and my father were living inan upstairs room in my grandmother's house.

This close proximity in adulthood turned their mutual dislikeinto bouts of aggressive swearing followed by months of silence. And soit went for us.

Before he left when I was 11, my father had started tointervene between us. Once, when I took too long to eat my Finduspancakes, I was hurled from my chair to the floor where my head hit thecorner of the cabinet.

Blood started to pour down my neck (Ihave the scar to this day). My father took me to the bathroom sinkwhere he rinsed the blood away, soothing me. He told me how wrong mymother was to have lashed out, but also to do as she said. Sometimes hewas scared of her, too.

The danger for the child who is rejected by a parent comes (asany social worker or analyst will tell you) when that child ceases tofeel hurt. I don't remember when my mother started to slap me, but itwas some time after my father left home.

It seemed irrational, excessive and was done in a frothingfury. Once, when I borrowed her fur coat without asking to dress up onHalloween, she followed me to a friend's house, knocked on the doorthen beat me until I hid under their kitchen table. I was determinednot to give her the satisfaction of seeing I was scared.

From then on, if she went to "get me", I would look her coldlyin the eyes inviting her to do her worst. I was thrilled by thesensation of being powerful and in total control of my feelings. I was¿ as she beganto say ¿ "a hard-faced git".

But I never once hit her back. I'd seen her beaten up by menbefore and refused to be like them. The smacking and kicking attackswent on until...well, they never really stopped, even when I reachedadulthood.

The first time my boyfriend (later my husband) met my mother, she accused me of stealing my sister'scardigan (it was mine, in fact). As he stood waiting for me outside the door, my mother came at me, fistsflying. I'm amazed he didn't run a mile when I finally opened the door, lips bloody, hair tangled.

My residual feeling from those years when I was between the agesof ten and 20 is one of anger mixed with pity. My mother was clearlyill, and no one, least of all me, could help her.

When I was 16 she took my best friend and I to the pub where wegot drunk. She told me repeatedly what good mates she and Katie were.

"I wouldn't be here with this boring whiner if it weren't foryou," she told Katie several times. Several things happened at thispoint that saved me from a predictable future of drug abuse, spendingthe remainder of my childhood in care and eventual homelessness.

To start with, I went to college and joined a wonderful circleof friends. I met girls whose mothers were genuinely interested intheir lives and I was stunned. When they asked questions about my ownhome life, unable to bring myself to tell the truth, I made the wholething into a fantastic joke, a frenzy of hilarious adventures.

And so I learnt to laugh at the madness at home rather thanmoan about it. Most importantly, it made me seelife as a series of scenes in a long, long drama. And the thing aboutscenes is they change, nothing stays the same. There was hope.

But much more important was my relationship with mygrandmother and with my father's next wife, Pat Phoenix. I moved inwith my maternal grandparents at 16. It was after an especially badattack by my mother.

After I failed to turn down the volume of an Adam And The Antsrecord enough, she simply swept the record player onto my face. Thiswas the final straw.

I think I pushed her that day, but the truth is I came veryclose to doing something much worse. Instead of repaying her violencein kind, I smashed some plates, threw some chairs about and left for mygrandparents' home, never to return.

My mother rang for days and days afterwards, crying and tellingmy grandmother over and over again she would kill herself if I didn'treturn. She told me I had a duty to her and that she needed me.

But after a few weeks, when she realised the emotionalblackmail had failed, she became vicious, accusing me of ruining herlife. And that's pretty much how our relationship has been in thequarter of a century since.

My grandmother, Frances Riley ¿ a tough, wiry woman, then inher 50s ¿ taught me what love and a contented home life should be.Every day when I returned from college she would be waiting for me withtwo things ¿ a cigarette ("For your nerves, you poor lamb") and a baconbutty.

She also taught me to reject self pity. Yes, she pampered me, but if after an awful visit to my mother ¿I went to see my sister twice a month - I came back and moaned about my lot, I'd immediately be given pots toscrub or brass knick-knacks to shine. My grandmother's message? Work hard, stay motivated. Never give in to "poor me" syndrome.

At the same time, my father was living with the most famous soapstar of that era, Pat Phoenix, and I would visit them every holiday.Famous as Elsie Tanner on Coronation Street, Pat was independent, fieryand down-to-earth.

My father had started a new life and was not interested in themess he'd left behind (namely, us kids), but Pat was. She had neverwanted children, but found in her sullen, teenage stepdaughter apotential protegé.

Appalled by my scruffy hair and lack offemininity, she bought me beautiful twin sets, fake fur coats andblouses. She also insisted on having my lanky hair "waved". I lookedplain ridiculous but it didn't matter.

She cared, and she made me feel worthy of care. I remember oneday walking past C&A and spotting a winter coat in the window. Itwas padded beige with a fake fur collar and looked so warm, clean, posheven.

Seeing me pause, Pat asked what I was looking at but saidnothing more. That night, back at her house, she gave me a bag whichhad the coat in. I was delighted. It was so expensive. Certainly, myfather would never have paid for something so fine.

Another summer, she bought my sister and me fold-up bikes afterI said we loved cycling. But my mother sold them within a month,without telling us.

We expect mothers to help us develop self-esteem and to instillin us the joy of being female. Pat Phoenix gave me that. It'sinteresting what a lack of maternal affection does to a young girl ¿and a woman.

It's both a hardening and a weakening process. On the onehand, by 12 years old I had toughened myself to my treatment at Mum'shands. Yet, until as recently as my 30s, I would still desperatelylatch on to older women, looking for mother substitutes.

One such talented, funny, woman ten years my senior ¿ who Imet when we were both campaigning for Labour in1997 ¿ offered me this piece of advice before I went to GlastonburyFestival with her for the first time: "Don't for a second think I'mgoing to become your mother, Lauren. I love your company, but I don'tneed any more children, okay?"

I was embarrassed by the fact she'd sensed my intense urge toshare with her all my worries, hopes and dreams. I wanted her approvalabout my life, yet we'd only met a couple of weeks before.

I spent several years as an emotional wreck, just crying atevery opportunity: on the walk home from the bus stop; in bed at night;even on the toilet or in the bath.

All my pent-up self-pity leaked out of me. Then, suddenly,daily situations/bad friends/a phone call from my mum didn't make mefeel sad any longer. I sometimes got angry, but have never sincewallowed in pity over my past.

I remember being moved by words of wisdom from Billy Connollyduring an interview he gave. Asked about his past of sexual andemotional abuse, he said something like: "But I feel so lucky ¿ therest of my life's been great." I really get that.

At 21 I met Craig, the man I would one day marry. He was sonice to me but I was suspicious of his motives.I have asked him many times over the years: "What is it you like aboutme so much? He just smiles and says: 'Because you drive me crazy,because you're you.'"

We've been together for longer than I lived at home as a child,and so the balance of what I believe love and family to really mean hasbeen shaped as much by my husband as my mother. But her treatment of menever stopped.

On my wedding day, she said to my husband: "Well you wanted her, now you've got her. Good f*****g luck!"

Unpleasant as she was, I would still take her out on herbirthday. Christmas would be spent at our house in North London, andlatterly in the South of France.

When I became pregnant, she told me: "I hope it's a girl so youcan have your heart broken, so you can know what it's like when theystart to talk and hate you, when she's as ungrateful as you were."

Yet I only ever wanted girls. When my daughters Alexandra andHolly came, less than three years apart, I was thrilled. I longed to dothe mummy thing of dressing them up like princesses, plaiting theirhair and teaching them to make cakes. In short, I wanted a normal,happy and stable family life.

And I think I have achieved it ¿ in no small part thanks to mywonderful husband and his mother. My mother-in-law has never let meadopt her as a surrogate mum, but she has always been there for me.With Craig's unshakable love for me and her practical, sensibleapproach to life's problems (mothers included), together we have builtan extremely happy family life.

Rather than seeking help from a "professional", I have beenable to expel any demons by chatting openly with friends from thattime. Several times a year we would get together and talk and talk andtalk about thepast in a way that was ¿ for me, at least ¿ far more therapeutic thantalking to a stranger.

I still worry constantly about my daughters' happiness,especially about my eldest, Alexandra. Has her self-esteem been boostedtoday? Have I been too hard on her? Does she...do they.. will they likeme in the future when I hate my own mother and when she hated hers?

Alexandra is the spit of me when I was her age, not only inlooks but in her sensitive nature. She seems so fragile I can hardlybreathe looking at her.

And yet, sometimes, I feel real anger at her tendency to cry over small things. I can feel an irrationalirritation building up if she snuffles. Once or twice when she has run in from school and clung to my legs¿ clung then clung some more ¿ I have felt the urge to push her off so strongly it's hard to resist.

Then I make myself look into those little chocolate-brown eyes,so trusting, looking up at me, and I realise I am the mummy now. I canshape or destroy our love, and this joy and responsibility are bothwonderfuland frightening.

Back at my grandfather's wake, I watched in a detached way asthe unhappy woman who gave birth to me tried yet again to deride me infront of our family, sneering when I showed my granddad's sister photosof the home he shared with us in France; saying no when at the end ofthe night and there was still some money behind the bar, my youngersister said it would be fitting if Craig and I took the rest towardsour board (we were staying at the hotel).

And I'm afraid something snapped. I resolved to have nothingmore to do with her. The day after the funeral she rang as if nothinguntoward had happened, as if she were the perfect mother and I thedevoted, grateful daughter.

It took all my strength to do it, but I told her I neverwanted to hear her voice or see her ever again. My duty now is to mygirls, whom I'm able to love and cosset thanks to the kindness of mytwo remarkable surrogatemothers ¿ Pat Phoenix and my Gran.

¿ The Mail tried to contact Lauren Booth's mother, but she was unavailable for

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Source: https://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1000565/Lauren-Booth-reveals-HATES-mother-wants-again.html

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