When I thought T was not going to survive his illness, who did I call out for? Somewhere from the core of my very being a tiny voice began to form the words mum.

Despite the years of venting anger towards her for emotional deprivation I couldn't believe my mouth wanted to say that word.

And who was there to mock me then? I shut my eyes and 'saw' mum standing over me, pointing her finger and saying, 'You thought you were a smart little bi*tch didn’t you?' I swapped that image with that of T's, and felt safe again.

Mother is so ingrain in brain from such an early age it sometimes feels I will never rid myself of her. While in despair, I keep going back in my head for some kind of comfort from her. And each time I do go back I feel that sense of loss, and futility. When I fall, and touch base with her I bounce back up again. It feels like a continuous brain bungy jump. The child needs then the adult gives.

When the need for emotional comfort is too great all I can do is wrapped myself in it. I do that by cocooning myself in the warmth of blankets and bed, and snuggle up to my 'woolly mum.' It's a 'claytons mum;' a mum I have when I don’t have a real one.

Brain seems content with that process, so I will continue on with it.