Ah yes: my mother.

Unsurprisingly we are estranged. Her ex partner died in a mysterious accident at home. She happened to be the last person to see him alive despite being separated for a year and him being engaged to someone else. She insinuated he had been drunk when she left and it was a Janine Butcher ‘if only he’d worn slip on shoes’ style situation.

No one was convinced and while the police could not pin it on her, she was evaluated and diagnosed anti social personality disorder or what you know as pyschopathy. Everyone was surprised the frumpy mum in a woolly pully was a murderer.

Except me. She was not happy she had a disabled daughter and she and my dad attempted to murder me multiple times as a child. She also has a pattern of arson and animal cruelty and I suspect multiple murder attempts going back to childhood. The last time I saw her she tried to glass me in the face and then aim for my neck.

To say I have PTSD is an understatement. The most worrying thing about when she dies is the actual bodies might turn out to be buried. I have logically prepared for it but you never get used to the fact your mum is a killer.

I’m sure it will come as no shock that she was also an awful mother with the maternal instinct and charm of a scorpion. Her grandfather was rumoured to be a bad bastard too. Links to the Black and Tans. Four of the thirteen children died but all past the age that early 1900s mortality rates explained it.

I think the pyschopathy skips a generation so I have no kids. I also keep no contact with either side of family at all. My mum’s side are actual ‘this thriller is a big far fetched’ fucked up and my dad’s breed pitbulls to show their soft side.