Advocates have been campaigning for the government to launch an inquiry into forced adoption in New Zealand, in which babies were stripped from their mothers immediately after birth. In a powerful piece, Newstalk ZB's chief political reporter Felix Marwick shares his memories of forced adoption and its legacy.

The practice of forced adoption, those horrific circumstances where unwed mothers had their new-born babies forcefully removed from them because of the social attitudes of the times and the stigma associated with illegitimate children, is a terrible stain on this country’s past.

I know this because it played a large part in destroying my mother’s life.

My mother was among those young girls of the 1960s that were banished to farms in the hinterland, so their swelling bellies didn’t cause embarrassment for their wider families, where they remained isolated until their babies were born. My mother’s child, my half brother, was taken from her just after he was born and that searing act had dire consequences for them both.

When I was young, I didn't notice that my mother had problems.  She appeared normal to me. As an art teacher, a liberal lefty, and a challenger of authority she was way more forthright and outgoing than the mothers of my friends. But given the activist nature of my parents, this was not unexpected.

However, there were aspects of her behaviour, that as I got older, became more and more jarring.

My mother was a drinker, an alcoholic in fact, and while she could be a happy drunk, more often than not she was a nasty drunk. When the booze took a grip and her inhibitions were down my mother was one of the most vicious and brutal people you could ever meet. She was very intelligent and knew how to use words to their greatest extent. When she had malicious intent, she could be absolutely devastating.

She also suffered bipolar depression.

Now whether or not either of these conditions was created out of the trauma she suffered when her child was taken away, I can not conclusively say. But I think it can be fairly argued, if they were pre-existing, they were exacerbated by her experience.

In hindsight, it is now clear to see my mother felt great guilt over what happened to her. Over the years there was a steady procession of foster children that came through our home. All of whom came from troubled families, and all of whom needed love and support. To her credit, and my father’s, my parents did amazing things to support these kids, giving them a stable and safe environment where they could flourish. I, of course, being very young at the time, didn’t know why my family did this. Now it seems there was probably an element of my mother trying to make up for the circumstances that saw her give up her first born.

My mother was a strong woman, but also a very brittle one. She was great at helping others with their problems. Unfortunately, she was unable to deal with her own demons and slowly, but surely, they started to drag her down.

As I got older I began to notice her behaviour more clearly and over time it got worse. The drunken episodes became more frequent, the angry outbursts more common and her relationships with those close to her became more strained. I still recall vividly the night she drove home drunk from town with me asleep in the back of the car and how furious my father was with her. I also remember the night she got drunk and crashed her car into a lamppost outside the local hospital.

It was in 1993 that things came to a head between us. We’d had our set to’s (what young adult doesn’t with their parent), and there had been occasions when I’d ended up on the receiving end of an angry drunken outburst - something I’d largely been sheltered from as a young child and as a teenager. This incident, however, was different, and the level of animosity and violence reached was such that it tipped a breaking point for me.  I won’t go into detail, but it remains the single most disturbing experience of my life to date.

As a result, I never spoke to her again.

Over the next four years, my mother’s situation deteriorated. She and my father, who had largely held her together for over 20 years, separated and she entered a  descending spiral of alcoholism and mental illness. She alienated many others that had been close to her and, despite some efforts on her part to fix her life, things got progressively worse. While she did get to reunite with my half-brother I do not think it was successful. I was not privy to the details but it turned out her relationship with him ended up just as distant as mine was with hers.

In May of 1997, 20 years ago next month,  she took her own life. She was 48 when she died.

I was overseas when I was told and I was not surprised, nor was I sad. The woman who had been my mother had died many years before. She’d really been a shell, functioning but not really living. There was no mourning on my part, more a weary acceptance that the inevitable had finally happened.

Despite the antipathy I had towards her in her final years, most of the anger I now have is for those who set her down that dark path. Her parents who forced an unendurable situation upon her because of the stigma of illegitimacy, and the society that allowed such awful actions to occur. In some parts of her life, my mother was very successful. First as a teacher and later as an art dealer. She had a creative streak that is rare to find and when well she was an amazing person of indomitable will. However, that was forever tainted by that one single element in her past. An element that eventually ruined her.

It’s heartening to see than many women in my mother’s position managed to survive the experience and reconnect with the children they lost. But I fear my mother’s example is neither isolated nor uncommon. She’s probably just one of many whose lives were destroyed by the brutal experience forced adoption imposed on them.