My story by Rosy Stanesby

 

My parents separated when I was two years old and for nine years, my mum, encouraged by the family courts, tried to stop me seeing my Dad.

I would stay with him for four days a month and was eventually allowed 10 minutes on a Wednesday evening to talk to him over the phone. Yet my Dad had to go to court and fight to achieve this. Why should my Dad have to fight to be able to speak to his daughter?

I never understood why I could not be with him. I used to think that I was the problem, I had caused this hell upon my family and I would cry myself to sleep at night, missing my Dad, confused and lonely. I had no one to talk to as I was cruelly taught by the family courts, CAFCASS, police and CSA, not to trust anybody.

In an interview with two Plymouth CAFCASS officers named Ms Beer and Mr Osborne, they asked me how wanting to see my Dad more, would make my mum feel. I told them that it would probably upset her. It followed by them asking me how I felt upsetting my mum.

After, I was in the waiting room, colouring, and could hear my mum crying in her interview next door. I immediately thought they had told her what I had said and felt really guilty. I did not want to hurt my mum and it was wrong of them to put me in the position where I had to choose which parent to hurt. Even after this upsetting interview, they lied in court about what I had said.

The police and CSA turned a knock at my front door into a stressful matter. When I was four, the police came round to my house at Dads. I was singing away, quite happily in the bath but they wanted to see me. I remember going downstairs and seeing them sat on our sofa. I now know that they were there because I was on the missing persons list due to arrangement complications and were told to take me away from my Dads. When my Dad refused this, they insisted that they had to check me for bruises or any signs of abuse. Of course, I was fine, safe and very happy to be with my Dad.

Travelling from mums to Dads was made into a big drama too. My mum ‘needed’ the police every time she dropped or picked me up. At first, I thought this was hilariously funny, but I was told by my mum and others that the police were called for ‘bad people’ which confused me because I knew my Dad was not bad. I couldn’t understand why everyone was so against him. Why did my mum hate him so much? Why did she ‘need’ the police?

When my Dad started protesting, the police and CSA took pictures I had drawn for him and took his drivers licence away. This made life even more difficult as my mum’s parents picked me up from Dads and drove me to school. This was very uncomfortable for me as even speaking of my Dad’s name at my mum’s house caused awkwardness and upset. On one occasion, I was about eight years old and my Grandma came to pick me up. She made a big fuss about me having a rabbit; she didn’t like it at all. This may sound small, but this really upset me and I refused to go to school with her. My Dad told her not to worry; he would get me to school somehow.

Suddenly the police called my Dad and this made me really angry. My Dad was not this monster everyone was making him out to be. I told him that I wanted to go down to the police station and talk to the police. I remember walking down our back lane to the police station and completely emptying my thoughts and feelings out to a police lady named Anya Teakle. I told her I wanted to see my Dad more and she only replied to say something along the lines of “You only want that because you have lots of fun weekends with him. You don’t really want to spend more time with your Dad.”

Everything I said, she managed to twist around and eventually, I burst into tears in the police station. “Why will nobody listen to me?” I asked her and before we left, she promised me she would get me a counsellor to talk to. This never happened. I felt so small all of the time. I felt constantly caught in the middle and as if I had to choose a side to be on. I loved both my parents and wanted to be with them both. I was sick of the heartache and just wanted life to be over. I often thought of not being there anymore, and I saw a much happier place.

I remember thinking how funny my Dad was climbing buildings. I must have been very small, but I was very proud of him. I encouraged him to wear his Robin suit because I thought the R stood for Rosy, and every time there was a protest or march, I loved the excitement and wanted to go.

As I became older, I began to see the seriousness behind my Dads protests and they really troubled me. Eventually, he was sent to prison for loving and wanting to see his own daughter. He missed my tenth birthday and this upset me, but also made me more determined to be with him. Months later, a CAFCASS officer named Bob McGavin came down from London to talk to me where I made my feelings extremely clear. I could not be hurt anymore. I had to threaten to run away to make them listen to me, but it should not have taken this.

I now live with my Dad half of the time and am very happy. However, my life is still shadowed by the suffering I had to go through for all those years. A lot of bad memories have stayed with me, and as much as I try, they won’t go away. Looking back, I clearly see the ugly truth behind the secret family courts and it sickens me to think of so many children going through the unnecessary pain I went through. All those years separated from their fathers, the ones they love, they will never get back. Nine years of precious time, I will never get back with my Dad either. Neither I nor my Dad deserved any of the heartbreak inflicted upon us so I have sent letters to CAFCASS and Judge David

Tyzack who kept my Dad from me. I have asked them why they hurt me so much and why they are hurting others still; and I have asked for apologies. They still come up with excuses or do not even reply, and are putting me through more pain.

To ad insult to injury, the Police have now threatened me with harassment after I wrote letters to the judge asking for an apology.

The family courts are so corrupt and must change before my whole generation becomes damaged. Children’s for Justice has begun to help me achieve this along with Fathers for Justice. Anybody reading this with a broken heart too, sit tight, justice will one day be ours…