In the week that the great Nelson Mandela passed away at the grand age of 95, I visited my 95 year old client for her pampering treatments. I rarely do mobile work and just look after a few clients that I enjoy doing and this lady is one of them. No-one's life can read like Mandela's as he was truly one of a kind but that does not make her any lesser or greater. And possibly in her time she may have been racist and pro-apartheid, or maybe not. She is the sweetest frail thing all hunched up and bed bound with a tiny voice. I've seen her picture, in the frame at the far end of her dressing table, of her at someone's wedding and this was a well built looking woman, the sort one would be cautious of messing with so I do wonder how as humans we can be all these different people within our lifetime. From the cute baby through to a crinkly and withered old person with all those different abilities and personalities along the way. Age can really level out a person's life with all their past put to one side.
Her skin is like paper and taught around her skeleton such that it does not take much to see her frame. All my treatments are modified: facials, manicures, pedicures and massage. I also remove facial whiskers and give her ears a good clean with damp cotton buds. She can feel those whiskers and they sure do bug her and are not good for her self esteem. I don't mind working with her bony hands and feet as there is a certain beauty in seeing the body in this way, and knowing that this person and this body have been on this earth for nearly one hundred years.
I'm seeing her monthly and I hear the same stories again and again and each time I listen avidly for I really do not mind hearing them again and genuinely sound delighted each time I hear them. Sometimes I try to gently push the boundaries for something else from her life though not too much so as not to make her uncomfortable. This time I finally took something of me and brought a large framed photo of my wedding day: of Mr Doris and myself. We propped it up so she could see it whilst I carried on with the treatments. She was so delighted and exclaimed it was like being at the cinema!
During the 90 minute session (supposed to be 60 minutes but I always allow extra) we laughed and giggled. Her lungs are starting to wheeze but she does not seem to recognise it as her lungs and asked me if I could hear that voice. She said something was echoing what she said. Then I could hear the wheeze which she heard as coming behind her and she said there was a man with her and kept telling him to shuss. The more she laughed the more the wheeze which lead to more laughter. We wished each other a happy Christmas and talked about my next visit in January.
As I was leaving, her daughter told me what a difference my visit made in that before I had arrived her mother had said she wanted to die and now she was a different person. This is not about me specifically, although I am sure there is something special I bring to the mix, but about the whole role of therapeutic treatments and beauty. It may be labelled as beauty but pulling a few whiskers is not rocket science and gentle hands on smoothing of creams gives a physical touch the human body and soul needs. On many previous visits my lady has cried about wanting to die because of the "trouble" she feels she is to her daughter. I think it is one thing dying because the body has finally had enough but another to just give up. When my lovely old lady does pass, I hope she will do so feeling happy and content ready to go and not because she feels she must.
Showing posts with label inner faith. Show all posts
Showing posts with label inner faith. Show all posts
Friday, 13 December 2013
Tuesday, 1 January 2013
Hello 2013
In the onion skin of life, another layer was shed at the eleventh hour in a most extraordinary twist of fate. Nearly six months ago I realised that I wanted a project done with and out of my life by the end of 2012. It was one of those quiet goals one has, yet in the last month or two there were other factors to take into account so I decided it probably best to leave alone until some time in 2013.
As the end of 2012 drew near I pondered with both disappointment and pragmatism over this desire I had which was not fulfilled. However, I let it go as there are more important things in life.
In the last twelve to eighteen hours of 2012 a course of events meant that in order to enable X and Y which "had" to happen then amazingly, the goal that I had wanted needed to take place. And so it was done. Quickly and without any fuss from me because if it was down to me I sure would have fussed and worried to great excess. The world carried on turning and I doubt it would even have noticed. An end of an era. Something that started off as a great idea with huge potential in the end weighed so heavily on my conscious. What should have been seen as an achievement was like a millstone.
Whether it is onion skins or like a cocoon, weight has been shed and I am freer. Other significant changes are in the pipeline and I can hear the fluttering of beating wings drying out and strengthening.
As the end of 2012 drew near I pondered with both disappointment and pragmatism over this desire I had which was not fulfilled. However, I let it go as there are more important things in life.
In the last twelve to eighteen hours of 2012 a course of events meant that in order to enable X and Y which "had" to happen then amazingly, the goal that I had wanted needed to take place. And so it was done. Quickly and without any fuss from me because if it was down to me I sure would have fussed and worried to great excess. The world carried on turning and I doubt it would even have noticed. An end of an era. Something that started off as a great idea with huge potential in the end weighed so heavily on my conscious. What should have been seen as an achievement was like a millstone.
Whether it is onion skins or like a cocoon, weight has been shed and I am freer. Other significant changes are in the pipeline and I can hear the fluttering of beating wings drying out and strengthening.
Monday, 3 December 2012
Baggage
We all carry baggage of some sort. May try not to but it is inevitable. Some have beautiful, sleek items, some have joyful affairs stuffed full of love, some have pain and illness, and so forth. Mostly I bet, we have a combination to reflect who we are. I try to think of my baggage assortment and all I can see is a ratty, tatty odd ball assortment with one or two gems of potential.
Maybe it was always those gems of potential, or an inner faith if you like, that kept me going through my growing-up years and since. Not that I sit and wallow in my childhood and blame my parents and in fact it is the opposite and far too much that I blame myself time and again for every thing that goes wrong. In the past I have written a fair deal about my mother, who passed away last year, about her undiagnosed Aspergers* qualities that in her may have contributed to her psychological and physical violence towards us all. I have written a bit about my father's complicity in it as he too suffered and then also my brother's added violence towards me as the convenient family scapegoat.
All that adds up to quite a bit of baggage. Some of which has been processed through counselling and blogging and the love of good people around me. I may not talk or write about it much these days but all that stuff is still there. A rag of a rug ever present under my feet that I fear less will be pulled out from under me, but still often fear. It is very difficult living life always being on guard, trying to say things right and not make a mistake, always taking on board the blame, and many more self-destroying behaviours. All this without actually looking or behaving like I am a creepy-trying-to-do-right person. And there you go, I can kick myself for that behaviour too.
It would be easy to say to snap out of it. Very easy. If only.
*Aspergers: please note that I do not for one minute say that people with Aspergers are necessarily violent or horrible. What I do say is that my mother's behaviour is consistent with the diagnosis. She struggled through life trying to cope with it herself and her own violent childhood, though mainly, she was in a world of her own not aware of how others were affected by her behaviour. She was never kept in check (my dad, her husband could have lovingly done that) and so knew no boundaries. I have written a few posts, this being one Parents with aspergers and on account of the many emails I have received over the years about it and what people say, I shall start to put in some labelling on the blog so that other childhood incidents can be more easily found. The reason for that, is that when one goes through this sort of living madness, to read that you are not alone is a Eureka moment. To know it is not all your fault.
Maybe it was always those gems of potential, or an inner faith if you like, that kept me going through my growing-up years and since. Not that I sit and wallow in my childhood and blame my parents and in fact it is the opposite and far too much that I blame myself time and again for every thing that goes wrong. In the past I have written a fair deal about my mother, who passed away last year, about her undiagnosed Aspergers* qualities that in her may have contributed to her psychological and physical violence towards us all. I have written a bit about my father's complicity in it as he too suffered and then also my brother's added violence towards me as the convenient family scapegoat.
All that adds up to quite a bit of baggage. Some of which has been processed through counselling and blogging and the love of good people around me. I may not talk or write about it much these days but all that stuff is still there. A rag of a rug ever present under my feet that I fear less will be pulled out from under me, but still often fear. It is very difficult living life always being on guard, trying to say things right and not make a mistake, always taking on board the blame, and many more self-destroying behaviours. All this without actually looking or behaving like I am a creepy-trying-to-do-right person. And there you go, I can kick myself for that behaviour too.
It would be easy to say to snap out of it. Very easy. If only.
*Aspergers: please note that I do not for one minute say that people with Aspergers are necessarily violent or horrible. What I do say is that my mother's behaviour is consistent with the diagnosis. She struggled through life trying to cope with it herself and her own violent childhood, though mainly, she was in a world of her own not aware of how others were affected by her behaviour. She was never kept in check (my dad, her husband could have lovingly done that) and so knew no boundaries. I have written a few posts, this being one Parents with aspergers and on account of the many emails I have received over the years about it and what people say, I shall start to put in some labelling on the blog so that other childhood incidents can be more easily found. The reason for that, is that when one goes through this sort of living madness, to read that you are not alone is a Eureka moment. To know it is not all your fault.
Tuesday, 13 November 2012
The Duvet:Mattress:Husband Ratio
Nothing better than that feeling of lifting the duvet corner with its fullness filling my small hand, stepping into bed and sinking into the deep softness of the in-built mattress topper upon a firm mattress, and snuggling up to a warm and naked Mr Doris. Feels like I am sinking gently, cosseted in warmth and fabric and human touch. Feels safe.
This year has been amazing in some ways as change is good and there have been so many changes. On the other hand, so many tumultuous things have happened and are happening. Storms going on around me in other people's lives that impact me. Life can be so hard and just unfair at times. Bad things happen to good people - where is the karma in that?
A dear friend of many years is ill and after dealing with many difficulties in life is possibly terminal. The doctors have said it is so .... I just don't know how one lives with that knowledge. She is vibrant and very much alive. Who is to say what and how long? It is just not fair.
We started the year looking forward to a potential empty nest. That went pear shaped and moreso, delightfully, daughter has moved into the area and now lives just minutes away. The daughter I had previously shed many tears over on account of our diffcult relationship is amazing and wonderful. Son has changed careers already and now an apprentice will need to live with us another year on account of the economics of it all. At least he is gainfully employed - I'm not sure I could have coped much longer with him hiding out in his room playing games online.
Some aspects of my work are great and some, well, very sad. Mentally and emotionally this year I have been more fragile than ever. Resorting to an antidrepressant for the first time in my life. After 10 weeks and no sign of any benefits I came off them but hey, here's the great stuff - the side effects of coming off are still awful that weeks later I am still feeling it. In the place of drugs there have been some wonderful changes: a free of charge allotment to dig over - nothing like good solid exercise and turning the earth; going back to a no-sugar and no-alcohol diet; other diet improvements; and other exercise improvements. I had the feeling my GP was very impressed though I still have a way to go. Which reminds me, I have had a raft of tests and am still getting some other things sorted out.
Early next year I'll be fifty years old. For that I have vowed to get myself in good condition and sorted out. Despite the financial quagmire we are still in there are many aspects I can already tick off as a result of improvements and efforts this year: dentist - check; lose weight - check; better nutrition - check; exercise - check; wardrobe to be proud of - check; decent shoes - check; and I'm sure a few more. More are in hand such as improving libido!
As for the ratio between Duvet:Mattress:Husband I rather think the ratio is actually between that and the rest of my life. Thank goodness for Mr Doris and our lovely bed. Each time I lift those covers and step in I feel a sense of relief and calmness. An appreciation for the snuggliness of all three and the sanctuary they provide.
This year has been amazing in some ways as change is good and there have been so many changes. On the other hand, so many tumultuous things have happened and are happening. Storms going on around me in other people's lives that impact me. Life can be so hard and just unfair at times. Bad things happen to good people - where is the karma in that?
A dear friend of many years is ill and after dealing with many difficulties in life is possibly terminal. The doctors have said it is so .... I just don't know how one lives with that knowledge. She is vibrant and very much alive. Who is to say what and how long? It is just not fair.
We started the year looking forward to a potential empty nest. That went pear shaped and moreso, delightfully, daughter has moved into the area and now lives just minutes away. The daughter I had previously shed many tears over on account of our diffcult relationship is amazing and wonderful. Son has changed careers already and now an apprentice will need to live with us another year on account of the economics of it all. At least he is gainfully employed - I'm not sure I could have coped much longer with him hiding out in his room playing games online.
Some aspects of my work are great and some, well, very sad. Mentally and emotionally this year I have been more fragile than ever. Resorting to an antidrepressant for the first time in my life. After 10 weeks and no sign of any benefits I came off them but hey, here's the great stuff - the side effects of coming off are still awful that weeks later I am still feeling it. In the place of drugs there have been some wonderful changes: a free of charge allotment to dig over - nothing like good solid exercise and turning the earth; going back to a no-sugar and no-alcohol diet; other diet improvements; and other exercise improvements. I had the feeling my GP was very impressed though I still have a way to go. Which reminds me, I have had a raft of tests and am still getting some other things sorted out.
Early next year I'll be fifty years old. For that I have vowed to get myself in good condition and sorted out. Despite the financial quagmire we are still in there are many aspects I can already tick off as a result of improvements and efforts this year: dentist - check; lose weight - check; better nutrition - check; exercise - check; wardrobe to be proud of - check; decent shoes - check; and I'm sure a few more. More are in hand such as improving libido!
As for the ratio between Duvet:Mattress:Husband I rather think the ratio is actually between that and the rest of my life. Thank goodness for Mr Doris and our lovely bed. Each time I lift those covers and step in I feel a sense of relief and calmness. An appreciation for the snuggliness of all three and the sanctuary they provide.
Saturday, 31 March 2012
Joining the dots
The last few weeks have felt particularly sluggish. Nothing specific and yet almost right across the board except in one notable area: show me an empty chariot for someone else's cause or business and I am right on in there. Never mind that my own life and income is sad and wilting, that I am feeling tired and miserable and sorry for myself. If there is something that I can do to help and the cause is worth the effort then I am leaping aboard with little hesitation. It strikes me that I am good for other people and at times quite questionable to myself.
It is a facet of me and how I operate which I know I do not want to eliminate so I do not think I will ever really change on that score: I just like to help and be useful. Like a lot of us really.
These days I am not feeling too fond of the ideology of karma, that what you do unto others comes back to you. Simply because too many bad things keep happening to good people and this is not stacking up too well in my mind. Karma might be useful when thinking about some sort of cosmic law for the bad things people do but it seems less and less relevant when the argument is flipped.
Perhaps when I take up the reins of someone else's chariot I am escaping my own life - that is the usual sub-conscious reasoning. Or perhaps I am looking for some sort of magic wand that will make everything right for me if I help make things right for other people?
After these last weeks and months of treacle could it be that somehow I have managed a double backflip with a triple twist landing with a certain amount of aplomb? The wheels are in motion in my life once again and I am very hopeful. Hope and Faith should have been my middle names as these seem irrepressible despite layers of depression heaped upon at times. Instead of me having to battle away, a proposition has come knocking on my door and one which I very much welcome. It would combine me riding someone else's chariot with being able to ride my own. A neat little answer to a business conundrum. It all feels good, looks good and sounds good. I don't have to work by myself, and will have the structures of someone else's enterprise combined with bringing in my own speciality and being able to develop.
It is a shot of confidence. I can see myself receiving substantial cheque payments for excellent services rendered. A win-win situation. This weekend should see something developing as long as I keep clear headed and provide information needed for a targeted email. Next week may start bearing fruit, or maybe it will become apparent in due course.
As ever in my life, I am aware of another big change or development and the fanfares that surround it. I am aware that in the past things have changed quite drastically and what was, no longer is. Just like that. Perhaps it is like being in a clothes shop and trying on different outfits, liking something so much thinking this is "the" outfit, only to take it off and hang it back up again. Maybe that is all it is and maybe that is an OK approach to life and I have been just too serious about it all.
My life is exciting and interesting, but then whose isn't in their own ways? There are amazing people in my life and I have been blessed on that score. Also, somewhere in my life there must be an attic with my picture because here I am in my 50th year and for some reason I am looking better than I feel I have ever looked. Which is pretty darned useful since I am now working in the beauty industry. Sure I am aging and could do with some better skincare, but on the whole, I can still get by without makeup and usually do though am transformed with a lick of powder and brow colour and lippy.
It is coming up to a year since my mother died, not yet, but soon. This is a new landmark in my life. This week I went to the funeral of a child and the wails of his mother were piercing. Another friend's son who was lost is finally found. So naturally I think about my own son and my own shortness with him over various issues and how I should be grateful my son is neither dead nor lost. Then magically out of the blue something shifts. He communicates. And now, he has landed a job with which he is happy and is good for his confdence. He starts next Monday. Oh please let this work out for him too.
It is a facet of me and how I operate which I know I do not want to eliminate so I do not think I will ever really change on that score: I just like to help and be useful. Like a lot of us really.
These days I am not feeling too fond of the ideology of karma, that what you do unto others comes back to you. Simply because too many bad things keep happening to good people and this is not stacking up too well in my mind. Karma might be useful when thinking about some sort of cosmic law for the bad things people do but it seems less and less relevant when the argument is flipped.
Perhaps when I take up the reins of someone else's chariot I am escaping my own life - that is the usual sub-conscious reasoning. Or perhaps I am looking for some sort of magic wand that will make everything right for me if I help make things right for other people?
After these last weeks and months of treacle could it be that somehow I have managed a double backflip with a triple twist landing with a certain amount of aplomb? The wheels are in motion in my life once again and I am very hopeful. Hope and Faith should have been my middle names as these seem irrepressible despite layers of depression heaped upon at times. Instead of me having to battle away, a proposition has come knocking on my door and one which I very much welcome. It would combine me riding someone else's chariot with being able to ride my own. A neat little answer to a business conundrum. It all feels good, looks good and sounds good. I don't have to work by myself, and will have the structures of someone else's enterprise combined with bringing in my own speciality and being able to develop.
It is a shot of confidence. I can see myself receiving substantial cheque payments for excellent services rendered. A win-win situation. This weekend should see something developing as long as I keep clear headed and provide information needed for a targeted email. Next week may start bearing fruit, or maybe it will become apparent in due course.
As ever in my life, I am aware of another big change or development and the fanfares that surround it. I am aware that in the past things have changed quite drastically and what was, no longer is. Just like that. Perhaps it is like being in a clothes shop and trying on different outfits, liking something so much thinking this is "the" outfit, only to take it off and hang it back up again. Maybe that is all it is and maybe that is an OK approach to life and I have been just too serious about it all.
My life is exciting and interesting, but then whose isn't in their own ways? There are amazing people in my life and I have been blessed on that score. Also, somewhere in my life there must be an attic with my picture because here I am in my 50th year and for some reason I am looking better than I feel I have ever looked. Which is pretty darned useful since I am now working in the beauty industry. Sure I am aging and could do with some better skincare, but on the whole, I can still get by without makeup and usually do though am transformed with a lick of powder and brow colour and lippy.
It is coming up to a year since my mother died, not yet, but soon. This is a new landmark in my life. This week I went to the funeral of a child and the wails of his mother were piercing. Another friend's son who was lost is finally found. So naturally I think about my own son and my own shortness with him over various issues and how I should be grateful my son is neither dead nor lost. Then magically out of the blue something shifts. He communicates. And now, he has landed a job with which he is happy and is good for his confdence. He starts next Monday. Oh please let this work out for him too.
Monday, 12 September 2011
Gobsmacking
Since my mother died in May my life is beginning to read like a fantasy. Unbelievable and fantastical. In my last post I wrote about "the" amazing new job and my upcoming journey to Thailand. So I started my new job and then jetted off to Thailand with my dear friend and saw her through another painful and difficult set of operations that were ultimately very successful. It was a privilege to be there and to really help though it was exhausting. I returned looking forward to my new job and developing my own business.
Within a few days of arriving back my name had been put forward for another job and if I had thought the other job was amazing this one turns out to be stellar. A part of me was terrified thinking who am I to even think I could dare to do it. Wondering if it went pear-shaped it would be down to my incompetence. On the other hand, a part of me thought "why not me". That actually I could be great for this job. And I get to get a salary that would make a difference to our lives.
So I said "yes". And I am doing amazing. It is a new business with big plans for the future. I am to help set it up and get it running and once I (yes, me!) have staff in place (under me!) then to go help set up the next branch. And then the next branch after that. A simple salary for now, increasing a bit in January, a pension plan and a car next year ..... whose life is this?
Something in me has shifted. Something in me says yes, I can do it for me. Something in me is not so scared of being successful, of earning some money. Something in me knows she can do it - at least most of the time. I'm still a bit scared, though less scared than I have ever been. I speak up and speak confidently from within. It feels like me. It sounds like me. I'm not having to pretend.
Doris Day is on Channel 4 in the background and her 70s fashions are just gob-smackingly distracting that I am not sure I can follow my thoughts any more. In some scenes she looks like something off a knitting pattern and the rest are a document to the outrageous or appalling 70s. Such bright lemon yellows. And thick striped blusher like a third degree burn!
Talking of fashions, thanks to my local dress agency I have a whole new fabulous wardrobe worthy of my new job. It is a joy to open my wardrobe doors and decide what to wear that day. All at a snip. Pay day has not yet arrived and I am already feeling it and feeling good. The old poverty mentality seems to have melted away.
There is a lot of work. I am working very hard and also having to up some of my qualifications with some sharpish distance learning. Let no-one ever say this is easy, or I have had it easy. On the other hard there is a flow and it is flowing smoothly. Like a dream. I almost can not wait for the next episode of my own life.
Here's to sharing the love. And luck.
Within a few days of arriving back my name had been put forward for another job and if I had thought the other job was amazing this one turns out to be stellar. A part of me was terrified thinking who am I to even think I could dare to do it. Wondering if it went pear-shaped it would be down to my incompetence. On the other hand, a part of me thought "why not me". That actually I could be great for this job. And I get to get a salary that would make a difference to our lives.
So I said "yes". And I am doing amazing. It is a new business with big plans for the future. I am to help set it up and get it running and once I (yes, me!) have staff in place (under me!) then to go help set up the next branch. And then the next branch after that. A simple salary for now, increasing a bit in January, a pension plan and a car next year ..... whose life is this?
Something in me has shifted. Something in me says yes, I can do it for me. Something in me is not so scared of being successful, of earning some money. Something in me knows she can do it - at least most of the time. I'm still a bit scared, though less scared than I have ever been. I speak up and speak confidently from within. It feels like me. It sounds like me. I'm not having to pretend.
Doris Day is on Channel 4 in the background and her 70s fashions are just gob-smackingly distracting that I am not sure I can follow my thoughts any more. In some scenes she looks like something off a knitting pattern and the rest are a document to the outrageous or appalling 70s. Such bright lemon yellows. And thick striped blusher like a third degree burn!
Talking of fashions, thanks to my local dress agency I have a whole new fabulous wardrobe worthy of my new job. It is a joy to open my wardrobe doors and decide what to wear that day. All at a snip. Pay day has not yet arrived and I am already feeling it and feeling good. The old poverty mentality seems to have melted away.
There is a lot of work. I am working very hard and also having to up some of my qualifications with some sharpish distance learning. Let no-one ever say this is easy, or I have had it easy. On the other hard there is a flow and it is flowing smoothly. Like a dream. I almost can not wait for the next episode of my own life.
Here's to sharing the love. And luck.
Saturday, 18 June 2011
That lovely feeling of confidence
This time in two weeks I will have completed my one year beauty course. I did it. Put in the time and the energy and on the verge of completing, even though I shall be up to the line with the required assessments. It has been a mostly fabulous experience: nearly fifty years old and going back into a college environment with all the students and most of the tutors much younger. We have been a great group which has bonded well, been enthusiastic and worked our butts off. There have, however, been times when it has been extremely tedious and I have seriously wondered the merits of why I am doing this and what are the gains. Especially when I am repeating over a year most of what I had learned on very short and sharp courses it has sometimes seemed a time occupier that has kept me away from developing my co-existing beauty business and actually earning a decent income.
Now that I have also passed the entrance exam and been offered a place on the next level beauty course I am questioning the merits of another year at college. With a timetable that occupies more of a week I wonder if the end qualification is worth the time and investment involved. The pros and cons have been looked at and darling Mr Doris has been helpful in the discussions. Son even offered up his thoughts on the matter and really embraced the idea of his mother asking for his opinions. In the midst of discussions, an unofficial offer of a small financial present that would cover the enrolment and kit fees, or even towards expenses already incurred, came through. Is this the universe saying, "do it"?
This time next year I'd be completing that course and one thing I know I will have, is that delicious feeling of confidence in myself and my profession. Something that has been missing for so long. I remember it in my early twenties when I was a bit of a chef or a caterer. I just knew my stuff and that was all there was to it. Not a cocky arrogance, just a lovely feeling. I also had it when I worked with children. After two years of study and apprenticeship followed by some years experience I had that feeling of confidence in myself. Ever since I seem to have felt on the edge, not quite in control nor ever feeling quite so confident in me. I've walked the walk and talked the talk and generally given others the feeling I am very confident whilst inside was scared and barely holding on at times.
Already, in my new profession, I am feeling stronger and more confident and can see that growing even more. Whilst I might question the viability of taking out another year at college, and keeping business development on hold, I can not underestimate the gains to be made for my inner sense of peace and confidence.
"But" count = 0 found and none exterminated!
Now that I have also passed the entrance exam and been offered a place on the next level beauty course I am questioning the merits of another year at college. With a timetable that occupies more of a week I wonder if the end qualification is worth the time and investment involved. The pros and cons have been looked at and darling Mr Doris has been helpful in the discussions. Son even offered up his thoughts on the matter and really embraced the idea of his mother asking for his opinions. In the midst of discussions, an unofficial offer of a small financial present that would cover the enrolment and kit fees, or even towards expenses already incurred, came through. Is this the universe saying, "do it"?
This time next year I'd be completing that course and one thing I know I will have, is that delicious feeling of confidence in myself and my profession. Something that has been missing for so long. I remember it in my early twenties when I was a bit of a chef or a caterer. I just knew my stuff and that was all there was to it. Not a cocky arrogance, just a lovely feeling. I also had it when I worked with children. After two years of study and apprenticeship followed by some years experience I had that feeling of confidence in myself. Ever since I seem to have felt on the edge, not quite in control nor ever feeling quite so confident in me. I've walked the walk and talked the talk and generally given others the feeling I am very confident whilst inside was scared and barely holding on at times.
Already, in my new profession, I am feeling stronger and more confident and can see that growing even more. Whilst I might question the viability of taking out another year at college, and keeping business development on hold, I can not underestimate the gains to be made for my inner sense of peace and confidence.
"But" count = 0 found and none exterminated!
Tuesday, 14 December 2010
Constructing Reality
We each have our lives with its various constructs living in our cosy castles but what is it that gives us our strength? That keeps us going and gives a sense of purpose? In my case, strip away my dear Mr Doris, my kids, my family and my friends and what is there? Who am I then? There has to be something in each of us that gives us our own identity and reasons for being otherwise we are just empty shells slotting into a jigsaw, and should that jigsaw fall apart we could be awash without any anchor.
In my case, I feel that inside tiny me is a something that has always held on, through the tough and the alone times. That demanded that there should be justice in this world and always had hope that things should get better. In a way, a something that just never gave up. It is curious because although I had this sense of justice and of what is right, it was a voice that I carried for others, rarely for me but this year I am finding that justice voice for me too. Finally utilising its essential nature in ways that have surprised me but have been inconsequential in the scheme of things inasmuch as I opened my mouth on my account but the world did not fall in.
With the idea of our constructed realities it is like a skeleton of a building with a lift shaft. As we each go up and down to each floor, it is like each is a whole new plane of thought with different concerns and issues. For that period of time on that floor, for however long we are there, we are in that groove: sometimes stuck, sometimes floating free, whatever it is that is to be our experience. And it seems that if we do not handle things differently, or better, we are consigned to come back to those floors that create the most mayhem. Again and again and I wonder if in the next life too until we deal with things better.
There are silly things in my life I still have issues with such as some aspects of procrastination, or how I feel the world sometimes expects more of me than I can deliver. Stuff in my head that takes more time than it deserves and would be quicker to deal with the tasks in hand than worry about them. Then, there are those floors that are just complete travesties and tragedies for which I am grateful have not been my lot. We survive and we cope, or we don't. Those are the events outside of us that cut swathes through lives. The wars, the bombs, the murders, the accidents and so forth.
So what makes us survive? When there appears to be nothing else in life or it is all too much. There has to be just a smallest grain of hope. A hope that one day things will be better. Remembering that we are stuck on this floor at the moment but we will not always. The world is an amazing place. Bad things happen but it is a place of incredible beauty and awe. Human kind is amazing. We grow from just a simple egg and seed into this most complex bit of machinery that imagines structures and art and music. Green shoots and tiny flowers insist on growing from the most inhospitable side-walks or a rocky crevasse up a mountain. And whilst those little shoots continue to blossom there is always hope for us. Strip away those constructs, that plane of reality that insists this or that is important and let the core of who we are just be. We are vital just as we are.
It is eighteen days until the new year. This year I was big and bold and brave and did so very many things differently and can see my life has shifted gear after some years of being stuck. It is not all perfect and I have a journey to continue along but it feels like a good place to be. Any moment those ivory towers could be rocked and then I'd have to start all over again, but I hope not. There is much to be thankful for, even on those years I didn't feel things were going my way.
In my case, I feel that inside tiny me is a something that has always held on, through the tough and the alone times. That demanded that there should be justice in this world and always had hope that things should get better. In a way, a something that just never gave up. It is curious because although I had this sense of justice and of what is right, it was a voice that I carried for others, rarely for me but this year I am finding that justice voice for me too. Finally utilising its essential nature in ways that have surprised me but have been inconsequential in the scheme of things inasmuch as I opened my mouth on my account but the world did not fall in.
With the idea of our constructed realities it is like a skeleton of a building with a lift shaft. As we each go up and down to each floor, it is like each is a whole new plane of thought with different concerns and issues. For that period of time on that floor, for however long we are there, we are in that groove: sometimes stuck, sometimes floating free, whatever it is that is to be our experience. And it seems that if we do not handle things differently, or better, we are consigned to come back to those floors that create the most mayhem. Again and again and I wonder if in the next life too until we deal with things better.
There are silly things in my life I still have issues with such as some aspects of procrastination, or how I feel the world sometimes expects more of me than I can deliver. Stuff in my head that takes more time than it deserves and would be quicker to deal with the tasks in hand than worry about them. Then, there are those floors that are just complete travesties and tragedies for which I am grateful have not been my lot. We survive and we cope, or we don't. Those are the events outside of us that cut swathes through lives. The wars, the bombs, the murders, the accidents and so forth.
So what makes us survive? When there appears to be nothing else in life or it is all too much. There has to be just a smallest grain of hope. A hope that one day things will be better. Remembering that we are stuck on this floor at the moment but we will not always. The world is an amazing place. Bad things happen but it is a place of incredible beauty and awe. Human kind is amazing. We grow from just a simple egg and seed into this most complex bit of machinery that imagines structures and art and music. Green shoots and tiny flowers insist on growing from the most inhospitable side-walks or a rocky crevasse up a mountain. And whilst those little shoots continue to blossom there is always hope for us. Strip away those constructs, that plane of reality that insists this or that is important and let the core of who we are just be. We are vital just as we are.
It is eighteen days until the new year. This year I was big and bold and brave and did so very many things differently and can see my life has shifted gear after some years of being stuck. It is not all perfect and I have a journey to continue along but it feels like a good place to be. Any moment those ivory towers could be rocked and then I'd have to start all over again, but I hope not. There is much to be thankful for, even on those years I didn't feel things were going my way.
Sunday, 8 November 2009
There's a hole in my bucket
The more I fill it the more it leaks. So much so it is hard to know whether the bucket is ever half full or half empty and to that end I decided to do myself a Tarot spread with the question "What do I need to do in order to feel more confident about myself and happier with life?".
It has been nearly a year since I posted here and life hasn't stood still. In fact there has been some really big stuff and big head clearing going on, but how much head clearing and sorting does one person need? And with that criticism I have another thing to scold myself with, more self-chastising because if it has gone wrong it is my fault and if it has gone well then that is just good luck or good fortune but not due to my own hand. And that contradiction is not lost on me. So I can self-examine and still more stuff keeps coming up. I just want to be. To be me and for that to be good enough. But somewhere deep inside there is a monstrous me I work hard to suppress, so that no-one can discover her. So that she doesn't leak out. Probably that ugly, mean, sneaky and selfish child I was told I was in childhood. Yet here I am all these decades later and surely those ghosts don't still have a grip but more than ever seem to have an impact on me.
These are wobbly times just now, and according to my cards quite a big time. Perhaps this is the final clear out or at least a major fundamental one. I am trying to move forward a big project and although I am tinkering away and making progress I feel it is so slow (but it really is) a big hand has me gripped round the throat throwing diversions my way. The latest being discontent with my youngest who is now 15 years old. What I need to remember is that I am not a failure and to not let myself be diverted down the self-pitying route. That remembering that as a teenager he really is not so bad and that actually I have had it really good with him for much longer than I ever did with my daughter. So, this seems like a good point to take stock and put it out there publicly as a means to get it through to my core just how full my cup is.
Reasons to be cheerful:
- Darling Mr Doris and I have been happily married for over ten years. He is my stalwart partner and rock. He puts up with my emotions and he still chooses to hold my hand, and makes me frothy coffee and puddings and much more.
- Daughter is now 20 years old and previously I have talked about the pain and anguish I felt in my non-existent relationship with her as a teen, but now she and I are very close and she is a darling to me. She has acknowledged who we are as parents and how we are and talks to me as if I might have something useful to say!
- Son is actually a good kid on the whole. He does not do drugs (except the alcoholic fuelled mishap a few months ago), has some nice friends and is mostly polite. He has ideas about his future and occasionally sounds intelligent.
- We live in a lovely home. It is very compact but it does. It is energy efficient, warm and cosy and a very good rent in a lovely little English town with essential shops just a minute away.
- We have tenants living in our old house which we were not able to sell but having tenants is a viable alternative. Magically, within three weeks of us taking the risk to leap from our old house leaving it empty to be where we are now our tenants materialised and signed the contract. There have been issues with unpaid rent which have been a tad challenging but these are resolved and the prospects are good. One day, when the markets have recovered, we'll be able to sell it and end up with something in hand but if we had managed to sell it in the past year or so it would have been for very little and swallowed up by debts. So this appears to be a good investment after all.
- Financially we have taken a huge dive but thank you to a very generous gift we have gotten by, and with me finally getting a grip on our finances, we will one day be in a very strong position. It is very tight just now and has been for a while but we'll be okay.
- I have great siblings, especially the one we now live near who is wonderful along with her family.
- And then I have some amazing friends and for that I am very honoured. I love them and they love me and this is a state of affairs for which I am very grateful. In the last year there has been some ups and downs due to my own actions concerning a couple of friends that has been very painful but these are thankfully resolved.
As one of the curiosities of life, I have found myself in a most extraordinary position this year with my mother being potentially seriously ill. This woman who cut through my young life like a mad woman and whose love I once wanted but was cured of at the age of 30, and with whom I have had a tolerating relationship in recent years. But this year I have held her hand through some scary stuff and been her advocate with the health people being an intermediary to help them cope with her and to help her to cope with this foreign world of hospitals. She is not in any immediate danger but who knows what the months ahead may show. I have sat with her as she has told consultants about her terrible childhood with not a single blink of acknowledgement as to what happened to me and what she did. She has said that I have been like a mother to her during these months. And so I have. It has been all so bloody odd. It is like watching a movie of someone else's life which is perhaps no bad thing as a means of coping as one's once all powerful mother shows signs of fragility and a possible end.
Tarot
That picture above is my Celtic Cross spread using the Gilded Tarot. One possible reading says that the Page of Cups is me holding the mirror up to my life considering the question was "What do I need to do in order to feel more confident about myself and happier with life?". The Queen of Swords probably represents my mother and the effect of her cutting words on my life. The Lovers above represents the positive impression I give out to the world whilst the 10 of swords below reveals my depression hidden underneath, but that I can choose to get up and not be depressed. And so it goes on ultimately to say I will get out of it but I need to let go and to stop trying quite so hard. Living for the present and enjoying what I have is not a bad strategy and obvious really. Putting it into practise is easy to say and rationalise but I have concerns for the doing.
Blogging
It has been beneficial in the past so I may be back. Who knows. Each day is as it comes.
Love and hugs to the world.
Tuesday, 14 October 2008
Message in a bottle
It is hard to feel any optimism, yet optimistic news might be on the horizon. It might all work out jolly well actually, but I don't feel like that and find it hard to summon up any enthusiasm. Just in case it falls through, and just because it might not happen I must try to hold tight.
Holding tight these days means hiding away. Curled up and hidden in my bed alternating between tears, blankness and tapping away at my Nintendo brain training "germ buster" game. Like a helpless vegetable on the chopping board knowing that once upon a time I grew vigourously and fought back. My fight seems to have gotten up and walked off leaving me shockingly bitter and sour on the inside and I don't like this person. Not one bit. But in a contradiction, I know this isn't really me and some very tiny, far off voice inside me is shouting help, let me out.
On the outside, very few people know all this, but increasingly my friends are finding out - because I am talking more - and they have been magnificent throwing me lifelines. This year has been extraordinary on the friends front so the one thing I don't feel is alone. But this is still my life and despite a wonderful husband and friends I have this path to tread, but my feet just don't seem to be working.
Chastising myself and trying to get things into perspective has only contributed to the darkness. I feel enough guilt without adding more to the mix. "For God's sake, pull yourself together" I tell myself to little physical effect.
In early August my mother was showing strong intentions to blog therefore I felt an obviously stronger need to withdraw mine from eyesight. The whole world might be blogging but life is stranger than fiction and coincidences happen and she might just come across mine and recognise this or that. As it happens, I don't think she has taken forward blogging after all!
In mid August depression gripped so tight that after a weekend of tears I resolved to do something. On the Monday I went out to job agencies and by the Thursday I had started a temp job as a medical secretary in the oncology department of the local hospital. So maybe I might have fibbed about the extent of my experience as an audio typist but that did tickle me that I could go out and get a job and push the boundaries a tad. The pay is little above the minimum UK wage, but it is a regular 25 hours of work/income each week. Even through my depressions I continued to work, letting my hair fall over my eyes on those days the tears would not stop. I am still there and the work itself is a blog by itself.
Since that time I have also been plotting my morning temperature and my depressions and anything else of note. I had thought my monthly cycle had become irregular but so far it seems not, though the frequency of my severe one day depressions have been alarming, but they have actually been better of late. No surprise to know that I am writing this through one at present.
Currently 14 year old son has measles which I have been helping to nurse him through. He is having a rough time especially now with the itchyness of the rash. I never knew measles could be so itchy but it is like his skin is crawling and alive. I have tried various alternative aids but today Mr Doris has bought some Piriton so we will see if that eases and whether a better night sleep can be had by all.
Outside the leaves are creating rich blankets and as I passed through them earlier today I thought about a year ago when I didn't expect we would still be living here for another Autumn. That makes over 18 months our house has been on the market and we have slashed the price down to give it away but still nowt. Over a year my son has lived weekdays at my sister to go to school near her and comes home for the weekends. What was originally a six week exercise has pushed us beyond anything. I am not being physically beaten like as a child and yet I am not sure I have ever felt quite so cowed. My chest has sunken in and my right shoulder has dropped putting stress on the wrong muscles leading to a frozen shoulder. I have been in a lot of pain and my movements have been restricted. I sit typing at work wincing at times with discomfort. But no-one there knows, and the bigger picture is that the income, no matter how small, has been regular and well needed. I could, and should, be doing bigger and better things but I am unable.
Something so heavy is sitting on me and holding me back for something. Or, in my dark hours I ponder that I am done with and my life and usefulness is over.
Actually, my arm is on the mend. As is my belief in myself. The wonders of kinsesiology and the support of lovely friends hold me through. We might be renting our house instead of selling. An option I once dismissed might now turn out to be a viable and excellent way forward. This could even mean us moving before Christmas, maybe even in as little as three weeks! Then we can be together as a family. Finally landed. Starting afresh. I can't quite believe it will happen and that scares me.
Thank you dear kind blog friends for reading my message in a bottle!
Holding tight these days means hiding away. Curled up and hidden in my bed alternating between tears, blankness and tapping away at my Nintendo brain training "germ buster" game. Like a helpless vegetable on the chopping board knowing that once upon a time I grew vigourously and fought back. My fight seems to have gotten up and walked off leaving me shockingly bitter and sour on the inside and I don't like this person. Not one bit. But in a contradiction, I know this isn't really me and some very tiny, far off voice inside me is shouting help, let me out.
On the outside, very few people know all this, but increasingly my friends are finding out - because I am talking more - and they have been magnificent throwing me lifelines. This year has been extraordinary on the friends front so the one thing I don't feel is alone. But this is still my life and despite a wonderful husband and friends I have this path to tread, but my feet just don't seem to be working.
Chastising myself and trying to get things into perspective has only contributed to the darkness. I feel enough guilt without adding more to the mix. "For God's sake, pull yourself together" I tell myself to little physical effect.
In early August my mother was showing strong intentions to blog therefore I felt an obviously stronger need to withdraw mine from eyesight. The whole world might be blogging but life is stranger than fiction and coincidences happen and she might just come across mine and recognise this or that. As it happens, I don't think she has taken forward blogging after all!
In mid August depression gripped so tight that after a weekend of tears I resolved to do something. On the Monday I went out to job agencies and by the Thursday I had started a temp job as a medical secretary in the oncology department of the local hospital. So maybe I might have fibbed about the extent of my experience as an audio typist but that did tickle me that I could go out and get a job and push the boundaries a tad. The pay is little above the minimum UK wage, but it is a regular 25 hours of work/income each week. Even through my depressions I continued to work, letting my hair fall over my eyes on those days the tears would not stop. I am still there and the work itself is a blog by itself.
Since that time I have also been plotting my morning temperature and my depressions and anything else of note. I had thought my monthly cycle had become irregular but so far it seems not, though the frequency of my severe one day depressions have been alarming, but they have actually been better of late. No surprise to know that I am writing this through one at present.
Currently 14 year old son has measles which I have been helping to nurse him through. He is having a rough time especially now with the itchyness of the rash. I never knew measles could be so itchy but it is like his skin is crawling and alive. I have tried various alternative aids but today Mr Doris has bought some Piriton so we will see if that eases and whether a better night sleep can be had by all.
Outside the leaves are creating rich blankets and as I passed through them earlier today I thought about a year ago when I didn't expect we would still be living here for another Autumn. That makes over 18 months our house has been on the market and we have slashed the price down to give it away but still nowt. Over a year my son has lived weekdays at my sister to go to school near her and comes home for the weekends. What was originally a six week exercise has pushed us beyond anything. I am not being physically beaten like as a child and yet I am not sure I have ever felt quite so cowed. My chest has sunken in and my right shoulder has dropped putting stress on the wrong muscles leading to a frozen shoulder. I have been in a lot of pain and my movements have been restricted. I sit typing at work wincing at times with discomfort. But no-one there knows, and the bigger picture is that the income, no matter how small, has been regular and well needed. I could, and should, be doing bigger and better things but I am unable.
Something so heavy is sitting on me and holding me back for something. Or, in my dark hours I ponder that I am done with and my life and usefulness is over.
Actually, my arm is on the mend. As is my belief in myself. The wonders of kinsesiology and the support of lovely friends hold me through. We might be renting our house instead of selling. An option I once dismissed might now turn out to be a viable and excellent way forward. This could even mean us moving before Christmas, maybe even in as little as three weeks! Then we can be together as a family. Finally landed. Starting afresh. I can't quite believe it will happen and that scares me.
Thank you dear kind blog friends for reading my message in a bottle!
Thursday, 31 July 2008
Anger, not fear
A book has come my way from "The Adult Children of Alcoholics Series". Entitled "The Self-Sabotage Syndrome: Adult Children in the Workplace". My parents are not apparently alcoholics, though at times they have not behaved well with alcohol but ACoCs is a term that can be used for anyone who has grown up in a dysfunctional family.
As an aside, I wonder how many people it takes for a family to become dysfunctional? Is just one mad parent enough and then everyone else runs around them? Or are we all within the family dysfunctional in our own sweet ways?
The term "adult children" speaks to me. Just by itself. And then the book begins with ascertaining that because of their upbringing ACoCs have no sense of what is "normal" saying "Adult Children of Alcoholics Guess at What Normal Is". Oh yes, that so resonates. That feeling of being always out on a limb and never being sure, of always feeling that I was making things up, of making up my own definitions to anything and everything. Which means that at any moment everything can come crashing down. Because I just made it up. Because I'm a fraud and I'm going to be caught out.
There is an aspect about ACoCs that I've read so far that I don't identify with and that is concerning my relationships and friendships. In fact just this month I have been realising that my friendships are one area of my life in which I am blessed and function really well. I'd don't feel all the pain and angst that I feel in other areas of my life and I wonder why that it is. Why, when my parents have not set any good examples of friendships in my childhood or since.
Laying in bed this morning thinking about this, with my constant self-analysis: stepping stones that tangle across my mind sometimes leaving me marooned in scary waters with no clear way across; I had a eureka moment. As a child we moved house and location about every two years. I never had good friendships as a kid so the moving actually became quite useful. I may not have had to face up to difficult situations in the long term, on the other hand I had plenty of experience of starting again. I actually welcomed the chance to start again and each time we moved, and being a kid, relationships were my priority. And I had plenty of chances to experiment. They were never right and I took a lot of hard knocks. I learned not to expect anything from anyone which was probably mainly due to my relationship with my parents, but reinforced by childhood relationships. I'm not sure what good things I learned from those times but I think I had the chance to find out what didn't work.
Since the age of seven I had the companionship and love of my little sister. This can not be under-estimated. I "had" to love her and protect her from the madness that was my mother. I became a mini-parent but more than that I was able to love her and she let me. Physical affection came from her, even if it was me holding her hand. When it came to me choosing between life or something else at 16 I had to walk away and leave her. Without saying a word. That was incredibly painful but she was already on her own destiny pathway and I knew she would make it. And she did. And we are very close now, but I think I still don't know the half of what she went through which makes me feel a little sad and selfish.
So when I left home at sixteen for the world of work I became the perfect ACoC employee and was easily exploited. But I was wide-eyed and enthralled by adult people. I loved meeting people and listening to them. I still am that wide-eyed girl and embrace people and situations in that way. I suppose luck comes into play that some beautiful people came into my life at different times throughout my life. I have had some friends come and go and I am still able to move on from places and leave people behind which does sound rather harsh and cold-hearted. But a core of people remain very special. A growing core even.
Boundaries in my friendships might have been a problem but I sorted that one pretty early by, on the one hand being able to love and be truly interested in other people and on the other to keep a tight reign on myself and not actually truly say too much about me. It wasn't until I was 31 years old that I told one of my girlfriends about some of my more difficult memories and then years go by and I only let out little tiny snippets. And then with my darling Mr Doris, one of my dearest friends, early on in our relationship I gave him something to read that I had written about me. Because I wanted him to know about the deep and dark depths I have. I didn't want to con him or for him to be shocked by someone different one day "when I might leak out". And then into my life comes someone who I had known of for years but suddenly we click and become immense friends and I find myself sharing depths. And then I get to my blogging years and I am haemorraghing all over the blog but in a way that has been constructive to me and now another friend is drawing depths out of me too that I didn't know I could share and I find I am changing.
Always a work in progress, for the first time in a very long time I feel like I am making progress. And this brings me to my anger. With the current financial situation in this world, life has dealt some interesting cards. Such that it seems likely when we sell our house, it won't be at a loss but there will not be much in the way of a profit. We will go into private rented and will start again with a clean slate. No debts. Just going forward and reconstruct. And in my self-analysis this morning I realised I am not scared of starting again. Picking myself and starting again is second nature to me. What I recognise is that I am so flaming angry about having to start again. My anger is such that it seethes underneath and leaks out in all the wrong places at the wrong times to the wrong people. Usually my kids but mainly directed back at me and internalised. I can feel it like a pit of badness inside me that I know has to stop or I'll be thoroughly ill.
Part of the ACoA thing is anger and anger issues. They flip out at the wrong time and inappropriately. I said that already but this is what the book says. I've never been allowed to be angry. Never known how to process anger properly. It always had to be subsumed and hidden because only my mother (or brother) could be angry. For a few months I have been aware of my feelings of anger. Like arrows flying off in all sorts of different directions and yet always avoiding the target but I don't know what the target is or should be. I don't want to be feeling this as I am not an angry and aggressive person but I suppose that is where the problem lays. I can not just feel anger and move on from it because I have seen anger as something to do with aggressiveness and as a whole character trait when that should not be the case. This area is a work in progress. And another diversion from what is probably needed - another ACoA trait. Apparently ACoAs have procrastination down to a fine art.
As an aside, I wonder how many people it takes for a family to become dysfunctional? Is just one mad parent enough and then everyone else runs around them? Or are we all within the family dysfunctional in our own sweet ways?
The term "adult children" speaks to me. Just by itself. And then the book begins with ascertaining that because of their upbringing ACoCs have no sense of what is "normal" saying "Adult Children of Alcoholics Guess at What Normal Is". Oh yes, that so resonates. That feeling of being always out on a limb and never being sure, of always feeling that I was making things up, of making up my own definitions to anything and everything. Which means that at any moment everything can come crashing down. Because I just made it up. Because I'm a fraud and I'm going to be caught out.
There is an aspect about ACoCs that I've read so far that I don't identify with and that is concerning my relationships and friendships. In fact just this month I have been realising that my friendships are one area of my life in which I am blessed and function really well. I'd don't feel all the pain and angst that I feel in other areas of my life and I wonder why that it is. Why, when my parents have not set any good examples of friendships in my childhood or since.
Laying in bed this morning thinking about this, with my constant self-analysis: stepping stones that tangle across my mind sometimes leaving me marooned in scary waters with no clear way across; I had a eureka moment. As a child we moved house and location about every two years. I never had good friendships as a kid so the moving actually became quite useful. I may not have had to face up to difficult situations in the long term, on the other hand I had plenty of experience of starting again. I actually welcomed the chance to start again and each time we moved, and being a kid, relationships were my priority. And I had plenty of chances to experiment. They were never right and I took a lot of hard knocks. I learned not to expect anything from anyone which was probably mainly due to my relationship with my parents, but reinforced by childhood relationships. I'm not sure what good things I learned from those times but I think I had the chance to find out what didn't work.
Since the age of seven I had the companionship and love of my little sister. This can not be under-estimated. I "had" to love her and protect her from the madness that was my mother. I became a mini-parent but more than that I was able to love her and she let me. Physical affection came from her, even if it was me holding her hand. When it came to me choosing between life or something else at 16 I had to walk away and leave her. Without saying a word. That was incredibly painful but she was already on her own destiny pathway and I knew she would make it. And she did. And we are very close now, but I think I still don't know the half of what she went through which makes me feel a little sad and selfish.
So when I left home at sixteen for the world of work I became the perfect ACoC employee and was easily exploited. But I was wide-eyed and enthralled by adult people. I loved meeting people and listening to them. I still am that wide-eyed girl and embrace people and situations in that way. I suppose luck comes into play that some beautiful people came into my life at different times throughout my life. I have had some friends come and go and I am still able to move on from places and leave people behind which does sound rather harsh and cold-hearted. But a core of people remain very special. A growing core even.
Boundaries in my friendships might have been a problem but I sorted that one pretty early by, on the one hand being able to love and be truly interested in other people and on the other to keep a tight reign on myself and not actually truly say too much about me. It wasn't until I was 31 years old that I told one of my girlfriends about some of my more difficult memories and then years go by and I only let out little tiny snippets. And then with my darling Mr Doris, one of my dearest friends, early on in our relationship I gave him something to read that I had written about me. Because I wanted him to know about the deep and dark depths I have. I didn't want to con him or for him to be shocked by someone different one day "when I might leak out". And then into my life comes someone who I had known of for years but suddenly we click and become immense friends and I find myself sharing depths. And then I get to my blogging years and I am haemorraghing all over the blog but in a way that has been constructive to me and now another friend is drawing depths out of me too that I didn't know I could share and I find I am changing.
Always a work in progress, for the first time in a very long time I feel like I am making progress. And this brings me to my anger. With the current financial situation in this world, life has dealt some interesting cards. Such that it seems likely when we sell our house, it won't be at a loss but there will not be much in the way of a profit. We will go into private rented and will start again with a clean slate. No debts. Just going forward and reconstruct. And in my self-analysis this morning I realised I am not scared of starting again. Picking myself and starting again is second nature to me. What I recognise is that I am so flaming angry about having to start again. My anger is such that it seethes underneath and leaks out in all the wrong places at the wrong times to the wrong people. Usually my kids but mainly directed back at me and internalised. I can feel it like a pit of badness inside me that I know has to stop or I'll be thoroughly ill.
Part of the ACoA thing is anger and anger issues. They flip out at the wrong time and inappropriately. I said that already but this is what the book says. I've never been allowed to be angry. Never known how to process anger properly. It always had to be subsumed and hidden because only my mother (or brother) could be angry. For a few months I have been aware of my feelings of anger. Like arrows flying off in all sorts of different directions and yet always avoiding the target but I don't know what the target is or should be. I don't want to be feeling this as I am not an angry and aggressive person but I suppose that is where the problem lays. I can not just feel anger and move on from it because I have seen anger as something to do with aggressiveness and as a whole character trait when that should not be the case. This area is a work in progress. And another diversion from what is probably needed - another ACoA trait. Apparently ACoAs have procrastination down to a fine art.
Saturday, 19 April 2008
Spring Cleaning of the Mind
Laying in bed this Saturday morning all cosy and hugged up, my mind drifted back, way back and maybe it is a sign to me to write it down. These last weeks I have been feeling better about my life and my past in a "letting go" kind of way. I've blogged about epsiodes from my past but I have deleted the mainly painful posts. It was really helpful to write them but there came a point when I felt it was all just dirty linen pegged up in public. I often run by instincts and if I feel to hang up some more washing then I'll put it down to some more spring cleaning and see it constructively too.
Summer of 1978
Aged fifteen during the punk years should have been the prime of my life. Instead I led a cloistered existence between school and home attending to every need of my mother and never getting it quite right. My mother was handy with anything wooden, in particular wooden handled feather dusters and long wooden spoons. She only used the handles and could create quite a swish and pain. They were her weapons of choice in administering punishment to us kids, and the number she got through as they broke across our bodies was quite impressive. I am surprised she could afford to keep replacing them but she did. One of her mantras then, quite public to us kids, was to never, ever leave a mark that could be seen. In those days, that meant if it was under your clothes then no-one would have to see the marks.
My older brother was the apple of her eye and she obviously preferred his company back then, though he wasn't immune to the blows. He in turn, used to take it out on me. So on the one side there was my mother and on the other my brother was beating me up. He knew what my mother was up to but I don't think she particularly knew what he was up to with me. In the pecking order of things I was pretty low down. So I kept quiet in order to keep the peace giving my brother free reign to continue his battery of me throughout our childhood.
I was six/seven years old when my mother was pregnant with my younger sibling. I was terrified she would have another girl and treat her like me so when my little sister was born I both adored her and vowed to myself to always love and protect her so she wouldn't get what I had. In the end, my sister's life took a different path being the angel blonde-haired child with a musical gift. Unlike dark haired me who reminded my mother of one of her sisters who she (unfairly) felt was cruel and devious. But my sister was also subjected to my mother's physical and mental brutality though she ended up with a different brand of it that I don't think I could have coped with it!
The Turning Points
In 1978 I can't remember which of these two events happened first but they were fairly close. I have written before about the first of these events, not that it was the only example nor was it the most serious, because it wasn't. It was because it had such a mental effect on me. The indignation and sense of self that it created inasmuch as I finally realised this was not acceptable.
It was washing day and as requested, presented my clothes for washing. There were times my mother insisted all clothes were turned inside out and other times that they must be in the right way and one never knew what was the right or wrong way anymore. I'm not talking about socks being scrunched up, I mean seriously all must be turned completely inside out. Now, I can see that is typically Aspergers but her way of handling it was her. I had gotten it wrong on this occasion and in her fury she lashed out at me with bare fists. In the impact I was knocked to the floor which she thought was wimpish of me since she reckoned she hadn't hit me that hard. This infuriated her more so she launched into me with kicks as I lay prone on the floor protecting my face. What got me was laying there, being kicked by my own mother and thinking I'm fifteen years old and this shouldn't be happening. I was developing a sense of self.
At some other point during the summer, us three kids were home alone and doing the chores. Things got out of hand as they often do ..... I think my brother was messing around with the vacuum cleaner and attacking us with it as it sucked. I think I might have struck back for a change and so my brother blew up in the way he does. His arms lengthen as his fists tighten, his face puffs up, his body goes red and seems to grow six inches. (Maybe the creator of the Incredible Hulk saw my brother in action once!) He launched into me with anger, as I cowered on the sofa trying to be a tiny ball he couldn't hurt. Don't forget I was very tiny until the age of sixteen. He took hold of my ankles and pulled me up into the air, upside down and began to hammer my body, head first into the floor. It might be relevant to say that we lived in a inner city tower block in those days with floors made of concrete with only thin carpet covering it. My little sister looked on horrified and remembers it to this day.
Somehow, with my sister's help I managed to escape and with my sister ran to the bedroom I shared with her and barricaded ourselves in. My brother was still on the warpath and proceeded to kick the door in. His foot didn't go all the way through and just smashed a hole through the front of the door. That door was the first door one saw as one came into the flat. The hallway that my mother had recently decorated with orange and green carpet tiles (it was the 70s!) and created almost a mock conservatory with vines and whatnot. That was it, I knew we were going to be in big trouble with my mother. Never mind that I had just been beaten up!
Taking the managerial role I set about trying to fix the door so that I could cover up my brother's actions. That now seems like sheer madness on my part but at the time I knew we had to keep my mother calm and sweet or else it would be more hellish. The door was one of those cheap construction doors with thin panels and corrugated cardboard in the middle. So I packed it up with stuffing from newspapers and then applied a coat of polyfilla. But the whole mass just sagged in the middle of the door and at some point my parents were going to be coming home. Plan B (or it could have been C or D by then!) was to apply a thin but strong layer of card over the hole and its wet stuffing and pin it into place. That worked quite well but the door was orange (it was the 70s!) to match the orange and green carpet tiles. There was paint left over so I quickly applied a coat to that area, but of course I didn't appreciate about undercoats and applying just a top coat didn't work well at first. Undeterred, and not having a full 24 hours for drying time I went ahead with a second coat of paint. We had to do lots of airing and lots of woodwork polishing elsewhere in the hallway to try and cover up the smell of paint.
With the paint still wet, my parents arrived home and us three kids were the picture of lightness and bright to try not to give anything away. My mother stood transfixed looking down at the patch on the bedroom door, she had a quizzical look on her face but said nothing and carried on. The patch would fool no-one so maybe the thought of how this could be was too much so she left it alone on this occasion. She never did find out about it.
By now, I knew I couldn't do this much more and had to get out but couldn't do anything until I was of legal age to leave school. I plotted and planned to leave school and home at the age of sixteen. Otherwise known, as running away from home. I was fifteen and a half and I knew from the news that other kids who disappear their photos are splashed all over the news. The answer was to make sure I didn't have any recent photos taken of me so that I couldn't be identified. Not that there were many photos being taken of me in those last few years as I was always snivelling and obviously an abomination to my mother who was the photographer of the family. For about six months I consciously avoided any camera activity whatsoever.
1979 - The First Great Escape
As soon as I turned sixteen I started applying for jobs and bunked off school to attend interviews. Other kids at the time were bunking off to do wild things but not me.... job interviews were my lot. It was difficult juggling my time with the postman to make sure that any job letters were not seen by my parents but in those days the posties were reliable. I secured an office job in the city. In the City of London at an insurance company and they seemed to really like me, even though I had applied for a basic office job. That was it. I organised a hostel place, which was much cheaper than renting a room of my own and packed my bags. No-one was at home and my mum was out at work and I wrote a long "I'm sorry" letter to my family.
I was sixteen and a matter of weeks old and seemed to have packed everything except the kitchen sink. I struggled downstairs to the taxi cab office with my load (it might have taken two trips in the lift!) and set off for my new life. Meanwhile, my brother returned home early and found my letter. Somehow he knew to go to the cab office. I had only gone a few streets in the cab when over the cab radio came a message "RTB POB". I knew nothing about cabs, nor about codes but as the driver amended his speed I instantly realised that the message was "Return To Base Passenger On Board". I didn't fight it, I don't know why but I knew it would be futile to fight.
My brother was waiting at the cab office and ushered me back home with all my stuff. We stood in the hallway, the one with the green and orange carpet tiles and for once he spoke gently to me and asked me why. I told him a bit of how he and mum treated me. In his own unique "Mr Innocent" way, utterly believable, he told me that I had imagined it all. The way he said it was chilling and potentially dangerous. Faced with me or my brother, my mother would always believe him even though he was already a known accomplished liar. I knew then that if I stayed I would truly go mad. But I would have to bide my time.
My brother kept quiet about that escape because, like us all, he knew it was better to keep the peace. Besides, he was the kid in the family who had a history of running away and had been doing so since about the age of six (I kid ye not!) and I was the one who always took the flak for him and kept my parents sweet. Or tried to. My mother needed someone to attack to take the pressure off my brother. Yup, he was seventeen years old at this point and busy looking after his own interests.
Pity about the job because I wasn't able to go. I wonder where I would be now in the insurance business if I had followed that path?
1979 - The Second Great Escape
I kept my head down for a while but not too long. I applied for more jobs and secured one as a filing clerk in a branch of the Civil Service. Lowly paid but what one would expect for my age at that time. I told a friend of mine at school what I was doing but not exactly where I was going. I would have been 16 and a couple of months old by then and must have left home on a Friday so that I could settle into the hostel and start work on the Monday. My room in the hostel was shared with a number of other women. No privacy, no security but it was very cheap. I lived on cans of cold baked beans as they were cheap and sustaining. Cold baked beans can taste sweet and delicious when eaten with a peace of mind.
On the Monday I was shown how to do my filing job. Filing and making coffee for the other staff was my role. The staff were really sweet and were much older than me and found me curious. I remember one particularly kind woman was shocked to find that I ate cold baked beans as I had no other money. By the Wednesday I had sussed my job and was doing so well that I had completed all filing tasks, plus the back log, by about midday. Without any qualifications it was clear I was able to do more. On the Friday I was called into the manager's office and given my first week's pay and told that I should come and see the manager again on Monday. From what little was said, it was hinted that I was in for some sort of promotion before too long. I had my first foot in the rung of the Civil Service ladder.
On my way back to the hostel, with my pay in my pocket (paid in cash in a brown envelope at the end of every week in those days) and already assigned to rent and travel leaving barely anything else for food I was feeling really happy and triumphant that I treated myself to a strawberry shake from McDonalds which were fairly new to London in those days.
Adding to the triumphant feeling was having been taken out to dinner at a proper restaurant the night before by one of the women who shared the room in the hostel. I had only been at the hostel a week but we had become friends in the first weekend and not only that, I was fascinated that she worked as an agency nurse and worked all hours for a lot of money but lived in a hostel. She was from the Middle East and had come to the UK because qualified nurses were needed. Living in the hostel cost more than paying for a mortgage and of course there was no privacy and no real life. She was quite able but for some reason hadn't got herself together to sort out accommodation. So I offered to look around for her and found her the perfect house in North London not far from her work. She liked it so much she put in an offer on the Thursday and began the process of buying the house. She took me out for dinner on the Thursday night to celebrate and to thank me. She kindly offered that I would have a room in her house for nothing to help me in return.
No wonder that after my first week of freedom I was feeling so good. My job was going brilliantly well and accommodation was going to improve. Slurping my exotic strawberry shake (that first one was exotic!) I arrived back at the hostel to have the hostel manager call me into her room. Another kindly woman, she made me sit down and told me that my father and brother were in the next room. She told me I had rights and that I didn't have to go home with them. I think she might have guessed the situation. Going back into child mode I knew I couldn't hold out against my parents and packed my bags. I wonder what would have happened if I had taken on board what she had said and refused to go home.
I wonder what happened to my nurse friend. I wonder if she completed on the purchase of that property and I wonder if she ever thinks of me. I don't even remember her name or what she looks like. I don't even remember anything else about her, but she was part of giving me hope.
My father had tracked me down because he interrogated my school friends (he was an ex-police officer) and although didn't have any precise hostel location knew the general area and knocked on every door until he found mine.
On my return my mother said one nice thing. Out of my entire childhood I can remember just one nice thing she said to me. Yes, that still makes me cry. Sat at dinner that night I said something like "thank you for having me back" and she returned with "It's good to have you back". I sat quietly crying into my food with such fucking gratitude. They knew nothing of what I had achieved during that week away and still don't know.
I was returned to school as I was told that I was not legally allowed to leave. When one's birthday falls on a certain date then you are not allowed to leave school until the end of the summer term, and not at the actual age of sixteen. Back at school my meeting with the headmaster is told here!
1979 - The Third Great Escape
Once again, my head was down and I trawled onwards. Life at home was as rubbish as ever and nothing changed. As a result of my previous escapes I learned a number of things: tell no-one anything; leave no clues; travel light; and get a live-in job as there are no accommodation costs to worry about. The writing was on the wall and surely my parents must have seen it. Being a year ahead of myself at school I had to re-sit all my O levels at the normal age and knew I was flunking them all over again. Once more I was secretly job hunting and found a live-in job in a bed and breakfast hotel in West London. There was no point trying to trace my nurse friend as my father could do that too. I graciously waited for my brother to have his birthday and made a quiet exit the day after with only what I could carry. An overstuffed rucksack and a bag and caught a bus down the road. I prayed as the bus drove away. Prayed that nothing would go wrong. I left a little "I'm sorry" note in the back of the fridge, just so that my parents knew I wasn't actually dead. A year later, I was still away discovering life and me. A body of an unidentified young woman had recently been pulled out of a canal and was on the news. She had a scar on her foot, as do I, so I sent my parents some flowers via Interflora to say I was OK. I went to an Interflora well away from my area and paid by cash (a whole week's wage back then!) and used false contact details. I knew well to cover my tracks.
Two and a half years after leaving home and after one too many breakdowns and with the support of my wonderful boyfriend of a year I contacted my parents again. I wonder where I'd be now if I hadn't done that! Those depressions would have been there anyway and I just had to work through them.
My mother would like nothing more than to know we are where we are at because of her. She appears on the whole to like me now and takes a glow from my achievements. Sad to say but it is just too late. I don't like the way I don't give her a second chance and make allowance that we all make mistakes, but I truly feel I have tried so many times before and had it thrown back in my face and trashed. So I protect myself by keeping from her emotionally. We have lots of contact now, which quite frankly, she is lucky to have but I wonder if she and my father are aware of the emptiness from me.
My father is not beloved by me nor innocent in all this. He was struggling too, to keep the peace with my mother. Often he would allow things to happen because it meant that my mother got whatever it was through her system and order was restored. If that meant me taking punishments for what I didn't do then he allowed it and told me to get on with it because it was better. No! In the long run it wasn't better. Someone should have stopped my mother. Should have set up boundaries of what was acceptable. But there we are. It is done. It is life.
Interestingly, my brother, still with anger issues even now, acknowledged to me in my twenties that what he did to me as a kid was wrong. He has apologised. Thoroughly. Acknowledgment and apologies go a huge way that if he goes before me I know that at his funeral I will be crying with all my heart for his mixed-up soul.
Writing all that has been interesting. I bawled my eyes out at one point but am OK now. Re-reading it seems to distance me from the events and brings perhaps more objectivity. Perhaps I might print a copy of it and go outside and burn it and see what happens.
Summer of 1978
Aged fifteen during the punk years should have been the prime of my life. Instead I led a cloistered existence between school and home attending to every need of my mother and never getting it quite right. My mother was handy with anything wooden, in particular wooden handled feather dusters and long wooden spoons. She only used the handles and could create quite a swish and pain. They were her weapons of choice in administering punishment to us kids, and the number she got through as they broke across our bodies was quite impressive. I am surprised she could afford to keep replacing them but she did. One of her mantras then, quite public to us kids, was to never, ever leave a mark that could be seen. In those days, that meant if it was under your clothes then no-one would have to see the marks.
My older brother was the apple of her eye and she obviously preferred his company back then, though he wasn't immune to the blows. He in turn, used to take it out on me. So on the one side there was my mother and on the other my brother was beating me up. He knew what my mother was up to but I don't think she particularly knew what he was up to with me. In the pecking order of things I was pretty low down. So I kept quiet in order to keep the peace giving my brother free reign to continue his battery of me throughout our childhood.
I was six/seven years old when my mother was pregnant with my younger sibling. I was terrified she would have another girl and treat her like me so when my little sister was born I both adored her and vowed to myself to always love and protect her so she wouldn't get what I had. In the end, my sister's life took a different path being the angel blonde-haired child with a musical gift. Unlike dark haired me who reminded my mother of one of her sisters who she (unfairly) felt was cruel and devious. But my sister was also subjected to my mother's physical and mental brutality though she ended up with a different brand of it that I don't think I could have coped with it!
The Turning Points
In 1978 I can't remember which of these two events happened first but they were fairly close. I have written before about the first of these events, not that it was the only example nor was it the most serious, because it wasn't. It was because it had such a mental effect on me. The indignation and sense of self that it created inasmuch as I finally realised this was not acceptable.
It was washing day and as requested, presented my clothes for washing. There were times my mother insisted all clothes were turned inside out and other times that they must be in the right way and one never knew what was the right or wrong way anymore. I'm not talking about socks being scrunched up, I mean seriously all must be turned completely inside out. Now, I can see that is typically Aspergers but her way of handling it was her. I had gotten it wrong on this occasion and in her fury she lashed out at me with bare fists. In the impact I was knocked to the floor which she thought was wimpish of me since she reckoned she hadn't hit me that hard. This infuriated her more so she launched into me with kicks as I lay prone on the floor protecting my face. What got me was laying there, being kicked by my own mother and thinking I'm fifteen years old and this shouldn't be happening. I was developing a sense of self.
At some other point during the summer, us three kids were home alone and doing the chores. Things got out of hand as they often do ..... I think my brother was messing around with the vacuum cleaner and attacking us with it as it sucked. I think I might have struck back for a change and so my brother blew up in the way he does. His arms lengthen as his fists tighten, his face puffs up, his body goes red and seems to grow six inches. (Maybe the creator of the Incredible Hulk saw my brother in action once!) He launched into me with anger, as I cowered on the sofa trying to be a tiny ball he couldn't hurt. Don't forget I was very tiny until the age of sixteen. He took hold of my ankles and pulled me up into the air, upside down and began to hammer my body, head first into the floor. It might be relevant to say that we lived in a inner city tower block in those days with floors made of concrete with only thin carpet covering it. My little sister looked on horrified and remembers it to this day.
Somehow, with my sister's help I managed to escape and with my sister ran to the bedroom I shared with her and barricaded ourselves in. My brother was still on the warpath and proceeded to kick the door in. His foot didn't go all the way through and just smashed a hole through the front of the door. That door was the first door one saw as one came into the flat. The hallway that my mother had recently decorated with orange and green carpet tiles (it was the 70s!) and created almost a mock conservatory with vines and whatnot. That was it, I knew we were going to be in big trouble with my mother. Never mind that I had just been beaten up!
Taking the managerial role I set about trying to fix the door so that I could cover up my brother's actions. That now seems like sheer madness on my part but at the time I knew we had to keep my mother calm and sweet or else it would be more hellish. The door was one of those cheap construction doors with thin panels and corrugated cardboard in the middle. So I packed it up with stuffing from newspapers and then applied a coat of polyfilla. But the whole mass just sagged in the middle of the door and at some point my parents were going to be coming home. Plan B (or it could have been C or D by then!) was to apply a thin but strong layer of card over the hole and its wet stuffing and pin it into place. That worked quite well but the door was orange (it was the 70s!) to match the orange and green carpet tiles. There was paint left over so I quickly applied a coat to that area, but of course I didn't appreciate about undercoats and applying just a top coat didn't work well at first. Undeterred, and not having a full 24 hours for drying time I went ahead with a second coat of paint. We had to do lots of airing and lots of woodwork polishing elsewhere in the hallway to try and cover up the smell of paint.
With the paint still wet, my parents arrived home and us three kids were the picture of lightness and bright to try not to give anything away. My mother stood transfixed looking down at the patch on the bedroom door, she had a quizzical look on her face but said nothing and carried on. The patch would fool no-one so maybe the thought of how this could be was too much so she left it alone on this occasion. She never did find out about it.
By now, I knew I couldn't do this much more and had to get out but couldn't do anything until I was of legal age to leave school. I plotted and planned to leave school and home at the age of sixteen. Otherwise known, as running away from home. I was fifteen and a half and I knew from the news that other kids who disappear their photos are splashed all over the news. The answer was to make sure I didn't have any recent photos taken of me so that I couldn't be identified. Not that there were many photos being taken of me in those last few years as I was always snivelling and obviously an abomination to my mother who was the photographer of the family. For about six months I consciously avoided any camera activity whatsoever.
1979 - The First Great Escape
As soon as I turned sixteen I started applying for jobs and bunked off school to attend interviews. Other kids at the time were bunking off to do wild things but not me.... job interviews were my lot. It was difficult juggling my time with the postman to make sure that any job letters were not seen by my parents but in those days the posties were reliable. I secured an office job in the city. In the City of London at an insurance company and they seemed to really like me, even though I had applied for a basic office job. That was it. I organised a hostel place, which was much cheaper than renting a room of my own and packed my bags. No-one was at home and my mum was out at work and I wrote a long "I'm sorry" letter to my family.
I was sixteen and a matter of weeks old and seemed to have packed everything except the kitchen sink. I struggled downstairs to the taxi cab office with my load (it might have taken two trips in the lift!) and set off for my new life. Meanwhile, my brother returned home early and found my letter. Somehow he knew to go to the cab office. I had only gone a few streets in the cab when over the cab radio came a message "RTB POB". I knew nothing about cabs, nor about codes but as the driver amended his speed I instantly realised that the message was "Return To Base Passenger On Board". I didn't fight it, I don't know why but I knew it would be futile to fight.
My brother was waiting at the cab office and ushered me back home with all my stuff. We stood in the hallway, the one with the green and orange carpet tiles and for once he spoke gently to me and asked me why. I told him a bit of how he and mum treated me. In his own unique "Mr Innocent" way, utterly believable, he told me that I had imagined it all. The way he said it was chilling and potentially dangerous. Faced with me or my brother, my mother would always believe him even though he was already a known accomplished liar. I knew then that if I stayed I would truly go mad. But I would have to bide my time.
My brother kept quiet about that escape because, like us all, he knew it was better to keep the peace. Besides, he was the kid in the family who had a history of running away and had been doing so since about the age of six (I kid ye not!) and I was the one who always took the flak for him and kept my parents sweet. Or tried to. My mother needed someone to attack to take the pressure off my brother. Yup, he was seventeen years old at this point and busy looking after his own interests.
Pity about the job because I wasn't able to go. I wonder where I would be now in the insurance business if I had followed that path?
1979 - The Second Great Escape
I kept my head down for a while but not too long. I applied for more jobs and secured one as a filing clerk in a branch of the Civil Service. Lowly paid but what one would expect for my age at that time. I told a friend of mine at school what I was doing but not exactly where I was going. I would have been 16 and a couple of months old by then and must have left home on a Friday so that I could settle into the hostel and start work on the Monday. My room in the hostel was shared with a number of other women. No privacy, no security but it was very cheap. I lived on cans of cold baked beans as they were cheap and sustaining. Cold baked beans can taste sweet and delicious when eaten with a peace of mind.
On the Monday I was shown how to do my filing job. Filing and making coffee for the other staff was my role. The staff were really sweet and were much older than me and found me curious. I remember one particularly kind woman was shocked to find that I ate cold baked beans as I had no other money. By the Wednesday I had sussed my job and was doing so well that I had completed all filing tasks, plus the back log, by about midday. Without any qualifications it was clear I was able to do more. On the Friday I was called into the manager's office and given my first week's pay and told that I should come and see the manager again on Monday. From what little was said, it was hinted that I was in for some sort of promotion before too long. I had my first foot in the rung of the Civil Service ladder.
On my way back to the hostel, with my pay in my pocket (paid in cash in a brown envelope at the end of every week in those days) and already assigned to rent and travel leaving barely anything else for food I was feeling really happy and triumphant that I treated myself to a strawberry shake from McDonalds which were fairly new to London in those days.
Adding to the triumphant feeling was having been taken out to dinner at a proper restaurant the night before by one of the women who shared the room in the hostel. I had only been at the hostel a week but we had become friends in the first weekend and not only that, I was fascinated that she worked as an agency nurse and worked all hours for a lot of money but lived in a hostel. She was from the Middle East and had come to the UK because qualified nurses were needed. Living in the hostel cost more than paying for a mortgage and of course there was no privacy and no real life. She was quite able but for some reason hadn't got herself together to sort out accommodation. So I offered to look around for her and found her the perfect house in North London not far from her work. She liked it so much she put in an offer on the Thursday and began the process of buying the house. She took me out for dinner on the Thursday night to celebrate and to thank me. She kindly offered that I would have a room in her house for nothing to help me in return.
No wonder that after my first week of freedom I was feeling so good. My job was going brilliantly well and accommodation was going to improve. Slurping my exotic strawberry shake (that first one was exotic!) I arrived back at the hostel to have the hostel manager call me into her room. Another kindly woman, she made me sit down and told me that my father and brother were in the next room. She told me I had rights and that I didn't have to go home with them. I think she might have guessed the situation. Going back into child mode I knew I couldn't hold out against my parents and packed my bags. I wonder what would have happened if I had taken on board what she had said and refused to go home.
I wonder what happened to my nurse friend. I wonder if she completed on the purchase of that property and I wonder if she ever thinks of me. I don't even remember her name or what she looks like. I don't even remember anything else about her, but she was part of giving me hope.
My father had tracked me down because he interrogated my school friends (he was an ex-police officer) and although didn't have any precise hostel location knew the general area and knocked on every door until he found mine.
On my return my mother said one nice thing. Out of my entire childhood I can remember just one nice thing she said to me. Yes, that still makes me cry. Sat at dinner that night I said something like "thank you for having me back" and she returned with "It's good to have you back". I sat quietly crying into my food with such fucking gratitude. They knew nothing of what I had achieved during that week away and still don't know.
I was returned to school as I was told that I was not legally allowed to leave. When one's birthday falls on a certain date then you are not allowed to leave school until the end of the summer term, and not at the actual age of sixteen. Back at school my meeting with the headmaster is told here!
1979 - The Third Great Escape
Once again, my head was down and I trawled onwards. Life at home was as rubbish as ever and nothing changed. As a result of my previous escapes I learned a number of things: tell no-one anything; leave no clues; travel light; and get a live-in job as there are no accommodation costs to worry about. The writing was on the wall and surely my parents must have seen it. Being a year ahead of myself at school I had to re-sit all my O levels at the normal age and knew I was flunking them all over again. Once more I was secretly job hunting and found a live-in job in a bed and breakfast hotel in West London. There was no point trying to trace my nurse friend as my father could do that too. I graciously waited for my brother to have his birthday and made a quiet exit the day after with only what I could carry. An overstuffed rucksack and a bag and caught a bus down the road. I prayed as the bus drove away. Prayed that nothing would go wrong. I left a little "I'm sorry" note in the back of the fridge, just so that my parents knew I wasn't actually dead. A year later, I was still away discovering life and me. A body of an unidentified young woman had recently been pulled out of a canal and was on the news. She had a scar on her foot, as do I, so I sent my parents some flowers via Interflora to say I was OK. I went to an Interflora well away from my area and paid by cash (a whole week's wage back then!) and used false contact details. I knew well to cover my tracks.
Two and a half years after leaving home and after one too many breakdowns and with the support of my wonderful boyfriend of a year I contacted my parents again. I wonder where I'd be now if I hadn't done that! Those depressions would have been there anyway and I just had to work through them.
My mother would like nothing more than to know we are where we are at because of her. She appears on the whole to like me now and takes a glow from my achievements. Sad to say but it is just too late. I don't like the way I don't give her a second chance and make allowance that we all make mistakes, but I truly feel I have tried so many times before and had it thrown back in my face and trashed. So I protect myself by keeping from her emotionally. We have lots of contact now, which quite frankly, she is lucky to have but I wonder if she and my father are aware of the emptiness from me.
My father is not beloved by me nor innocent in all this. He was struggling too, to keep the peace with my mother. Often he would allow things to happen because it meant that my mother got whatever it was through her system and order was restored. If that meant me taking punishments for what I didn't do then he allowed it and told me to get on with it because it was better. No! In the long run it wasn't better. Someone should have stopped my mother. Should have set up boundaries of what was acceptable. But there we are. It is done. It is life.
Interestingly, my brother, still with anger issues even now, acknowledged to me in my twenties that what he did to me as a kid was wrong. He has apologised. Thoroughly. Acknowledgment and apologies go a huge way that if he goes before me I know that at his funeral I will be crying with all my heart for his mixed-up soul.
Writing all that has been interesting. I bawled my eyes out at one point but am OK now. Re-reading it seems to distance me from the events and brings perhaps more objectivity. Perhaps I might print a copy of it and go outside and burn it and see what happens.
Friday, 21 March 2008
The Dinner Thing
The last week my delightful ten year old niece was telling me about the mini Easter plays taking place each assembly at her primary school. Wittering on she told me quite casually about "The Dinner Thing" which took me a few moments to realise she meant "The Last Supper". I'd never thought of that particular event as a dinner or a human meal as such, and rather, just about the impending betrayal. Nothing like saying it as it is and pointing out the obvious.
The Dinner Thing (1495-1498) by Leonardo da Vinci
It is a glorious Friday here with the sun pouring in the windows from early on. It has been like a divine light that has lit up my soul and made me want to sing, and I have. I'm not rushing off anywhere and I feel in charge .... I can decide to do this or that or nothing at all. Perhaps I have crossed another threshold in my life and now that I am finally here I can throw open the windows and let the light in.
All those darling people in my life, near and far, know that you have helped and I am beaming back to you mega energy, love and light. :-)
The Dinner Thing (1495-1498) by Leonardo da VinciIt is a glorious Friday here with the sun pouring in the windows from early on. It has been like a divine light that has lit up my soul and made me want to sing, and I have. I'm not rushing off anywhere and I feel in charge .... I can decide to do this or that or nothing at all. Perhaps I have crossed another threshold in my life and now that I am finally here I can throw open the windows and let the light in.
All those darling people in my life, near and far, know that you have helped and I am beaming back to you mega energy, love and light. :-)
Thursday, 14 February 2008
Hot salty tears
One of those nights where I have slept earlier on the sofa and then having gone to bed after midnight have lain in bed awake since. Contemplating life, the universe and everything, one thing leads to another and here I am crying. Hot salty tears that flow effortlessly and I wonder why am I crying? About events and situations that happened thirty to thirty-five years ago it seems utterly ridiculous. All whilst the steady, deep breaths of darling Mr Doris sleeping alongside.
It doesn't feel as if I want to be pitied or felt sorry for. It is not that I want to be a child again - heaven forbid I should go back to that purgatory. Maybe it is an escape mechanism for all the things not going right just now I can fall back into blaming my past. But I do not think it is that either, especially at a time I have realised I need to let go once again. Perhaps it is the over-indulgence in the red wine earlier in the evening but I feel as if I have slept it off already.
A week or so ago a crazy idea flashed across my mind that perhaps I wanted to confront my parents and to give them the opportunity to say sorry. To give them the chance to clear the air before any of us shuffle from this mortal coil. I don't for one moment think they are actually aware of the pain I carry from my mother's physical and mental blows (as a result of her own screwed up childhood) and from my father's negligence and complicity. Instead I organise family outings and treat them with extraordinary kindness and tolerance, even though I say it myself.
Back in the 1980s I came to a certain peace with my past for a while. At a time when I learned inside myself to forgive and let go although even then I felt a strong forgiveness I found it very hard to forget. I also realised nothing was to be gained from talking over the past with my parents: my mother would just deny it.
Which drives me back again to wondering why on earth should crummy events from all those years have such an impact now. I feel pathetic as a result. Like I should just pull myself together and move on. Or maybe I should face the fear and bring it out and let my parents in on it. If I have screwed up big time with my children I would rather they gave me the chance to fix it. But then I am really mainly sane. My mother is a little child inside. Not a child I could love but an egotistical little bitch who is mean, brutal and demanding. Sure she has a very kind side in an over-bearing "what-I-give-must-ultimately-be-paid-back" kind of way but nothing endearing to me. She wants to be loved and that is probably all she ever wanted. But she has had so many chances and so many lovely people in her life who have tried to show her love and friendship and if she blows it then that is her path.
Meanwhile I have known love and am loved. So why do the ghosts of the past still torment and affect me on occasion. What am I supposed to learn from all this - I am sure there must be a reason but I never seem to be able to put a finger on what it is. One day the answer will come from within. Thankfully writing it down here my eyes are now dry and perhaps sleep will wrap me in warm slumbers.
It doesn't feel as if I want to be pitied or felt sorry for. It is not that I want to be a child again - heaven forbid I should go back to that purgatory. Maybe it is an escape mechanism for all the things not going right just now I can fall back into blaming my past. But I do not think it is that either, especially at a time I have realised I need to let go once again. Perhaps it is the over-indulgence in the red wine earlier in the evening but I feel as if I have slept it off already.
A week or so ago a crazy idea flashed across my mind that perhaps I wanted to confront my parents and to give them the opportunity to say sorry. To give them the chance to clear the air before any of us shuffle from this mortal coil. I don't for one moment think they are actually aware of the pain I carry from my mother's physical and mental blows (as a result of her own screwed up childhood) and from my father's negligence and complicity. Instead I organise family outings and treat them with extraordinary kindness and tolerance, even though I say it myself.
Back in the 1980s I came to a certain peace with my past for a while. At a time when I learned inside myself to forgive and let go although even then I felt a strong forgiveness I found it very hard to forget. I also realised nothing was to be gained from talking over the past with my parents: my mother would just deny it.
Which drives me back again to wondering why on earth should crummy events from all those years have such an impact now. I feel pathetic as a result. Like I should just pull myself together and move on. Or maybe I should face the fear and bring it out and let my parents in on it. If I have screwed up big time with my children I would rather they gave me the chance to fix it. But then I am really mainly sane. My mother is a little child inside. Not a child I could love but an egotistical little bitch who is mean, brutal and demanding. Sure she has a very kind side in an over-bearing "what-I-give-must-ultimately-be-paid-back" kind of way but nothing endearing to me. She wants to be loved and that is probably all she ever wanted. But she has had so many chances and so many lovely people in her life who have tried to show her love and friendship and if she blows it then that is her path.
Meanwhile I have known love and am loved. So why do the ghosts of the past still torment and affect me on occasion. What am I supposed to learn from all this - I am sure there must be a reason but I never seem to be able to put a finger on what it is. One day the answer will come from within. Thankfully writing it down here my eyes are now dry and perhaps sleep will wrap me in warm slumbers.
Sunday, 4 February 2007
Chicks in the nest
My first born has flown the nest. It has been a few days now and is a strange feeling but okay. Perhaps good will come of it and a new and better relationship can flourish.
In the beginning it was just me and my first born. She was so special and we had so much fun. Then through some very difficult times my wings held tightly around and cushioned her so her ride wouldn't be too bumpy. Then second born was hatched and we landed in a new nest. My wings spread round both of them and held them close as I built up our nest. Through ups and downs I held our nest together and grew my little chickadees.
Then one day Mr Doris flew in and his wings wrapped around us all. By then first born was nearly nine and second born was four years old. For the first time in my life I felt truly safe. That I could let go. And so I did. But letting go means letting go and I think first born felt it. I didn't mean it to and I think she has been fighting me ever since. Not that she expresses exactly what it is but there is an underlying anger.
Perhaps going off to fly where she wants, and making her own nest, will help her find what she is looking for. I hope that my first born can rediscover the love she and I had and that she can fly home freely. So many hopes and dreams.
Just second born now in the nest. Bursting with testosterone and doing his own thing. I feel the need to stretch out my wings and to hold him in lest he flies off too, but more than ever I need to let go. It is very difficult being mummy bird.
Thank goodness for Mr Doris. One day, before too long, it will just be us and he makes me feel so safe. And I hope my little chickadees will feel good to fly home to us occasionally. So many hopes and dreams.
Original Comments:
In the beginning it was just me and my first born. She was so special and we had so much fun. Then through some very difficult times my wings held tightly around and cushioned her so her ride wouldn't be too bumpy. Then second born was hatched and we landed in a new nest. My wings spread round both of them and held them close as I built up our nest. Through ups and downs I held our nest together and grew my little chickadees.
Then one day Mr Doris flew in and his wings wrapped around us all. By then first born was nearly nine and second born was four years old. For the first time in my life I felt truly safe. That I could let go. And so I did. But letting go means letting go and I think first born felt it. I didn't mean it to and I think she has been fighting me ever since. Not that she expresses exactly what it is but there is an underlying anger.
Perhaps going off to fly where she wants, and making her own nest, will help her find what she is looking for. I hope that my first born can rediscover the love she and I had and that she can fly home freely. So many hopes and dreams.
Just second born now in the nest. Bursting with testosterone and doing his own thing. I feel the need to stretch out my wings and to hold him in lest he flies off too, but more than ever I need to let go. It is very difficult being mummy bird.
Thank goodness for Mr Doris. One day, before too long, it will just be us and he makes me feel so safe. And I hope my little chickadees will feel good to fly home to us occasionally. So many hopes and dreams.
Original Comments:
Monday, 3 April 2006
A new chapter
In January of this year a door opened in my life. A door to the past that revolves around to I don't know where. Maybe back to where I am but I suspect I will come out someplace different. And since January I've been in this revolving door. Not trapped but on a journey of discovery that has bounced me and pushed me and shoved me onwards.It's about my childhood. About the characters in my life. Who I am and how I operate. It's been exhilarating and mind blowing and yet I don't think I've changed that much but somewhere in me there is an essence that has been enriched.
Tomorrow begins a new chapter. Tomorrow I will be meeting family I have not known or seen since childhood. Somehow they seem to matter a lot to me and incredibly they have found the wherewithall to travel around the world to meet me and our family. I almost cry at the thought of how wonderful they are to have done this. For twenty five years my cousin has tried to find me and then gave it up as a lost cause about six years ago - just when I started looking for her family. This January one of her family found one of my messages on a genealogy board. That's when the door opened.
I may be gone a while!
Original Comments:
- Britmum said...
- Doris good luck to you. I am so happy for you and you deserve the best.
Take care
Catherine
- Stegbeetle said...
- Hope all goes well for you Doris!
- ChelseaFCChick said...
- Good luck, as stegbeetle said I hope it all goes well for you!
- Ally said...
- Good luck Doris, I hope it all goes well.
- Cheryl said...
- HUGE HUGS!!!!!!
- doris said...
- Thank you all (((Hugs)))
Day 1 Wow! Wow! Wow!
Driving there the sun was shining and the cherry blossom had blossomed. Tears pricked my eyes in anticipation. And then it was everything and more. A very long day and quite emotional in places. Only Day 1 and not a wasted moment :-)
- doris said...
- Day 2 The never-ending wonderful day.
Family history chats; saunter into town; relaxing in a bar; chatting whilst cooking dinner; after dinner games with Mr Doris and the kids all hooting with laughter; bed at midnight. Bliss.
- Cheryl said...
- Came back to ask how it was going - I see the answers are here already!
Wonderful!
- Stegbeetle said...
- EXCELLENT!
- Pookie65 said...
- Wishing you a beautiful reunion! Can't wait to hear all about it.
Huggers!
Pookie
- doris said...
- Thank you again. Thank you for caring :-)
Day 3 Emotions and depth.
Sightseeing and gadding about as a backdrop to the real business of chatting. Being together and sharing the tears of my cousin for her lost father and the words and memories so long unspoken. Acknowledging that we have so much in common as people and in what we like and how we are. Tomorrow we become a crowd as Aunty joins us. I reckon that'd be OK. Different but OK.
I just found out that my brother is to have an op to remove an unknown facial tumour. There is a small chance it is cancerous but it is a case of get it out and question it afterwards. I've been through the cancer scare thing with my brother before. I shan't start panicking this time.
Looks like the engine is in third gear and revving up. Seat belts are firmly on.
- jane said...
- I was here yesterday & tried to comment, but Blogger was screwy. I'm a firm believer that new doors open for reasons & this is a good example of that theory. I'm so jazzed for you that your cousin wanted to find you as much as you did she. Like Britmum says, you do deserve the best.
I just read your updates in comments & am glad things are going so well.
- ella m. said...
- Good luck (though it sounds like it will go excellently)!
I'll look forward to some joyous news upon your return. :D
- hellonheels said...
- Good Luck I am wishing you the best and much happiness!
- doris said...
- Day 4 And then Aunty came too.
Sightseeing and getting to know Aunty. All very nice indeed.
Today we set off and start with the challenging family - but I'm sure it will be brilliant.
- marina said...
- Be safe and all the best :)
- Astryngia said...
- Thinking of you. I love that way the baton was passed from cousin to you in order to finally bring the family together again. A field of energy at work which is greater than the sum of its parts. Magnificent.
- Britmum said...
- So glad that it is all being wonderful for you.
Take care
Catherine
- Astryngia said...
- I hope it is all continuing to be wunnerful - no heartache, well - only the good kind.
- Curly K said...
- Doris, delighted to hear things are going well. Enjoy the new found family and joys.
Will keep your brother and your family in my thoughts till the good news arrives. Been through scary times with my brother too, so know what it's like.
Sorry I haven't been logging on for a while; got a useless gallbladder our and now desperately trying to catch up with my fav six or seven blogs.
Monday, 20 March 2006
English Spring 2006
W E L C O M E
May your cheerful blooms lift hearts and spirits
Your firm stems stand tall and sure
And hope blossom like never before
With seeds planted forever more.
Doris
May your cheerful blooms lift hearts and spirits
Your firm stems stand tall and sure
And hope blossom like never before
With seeds planted forever more.
Doris
Technically we know that daffodils have bulbs and not seeds but this is poetic license and I'm not talking specifically about daffs!
Original Comments:
- doris said...
- Spring has sprung and I have done something sensational. Before going to bed (in a moment) I have voluntarily swept and washed the kitchen floor. And when my work was done I left the mop and headed off feeling good but then I went back and gave the bathroom a quick wipe over too.
Will wonders ever cease!
And when I was mopping I was thinking of a Janet and John reading book from my childhood..... when they still had them illustrated with their 1950s frocks. In this particular story it was raining and instead of going out with their mother they stayed in and washed the kitchen floor instead. That always baffled me. How on earth can washing the floor EVER be a substitute for going out. I'm still perplexed and obviously still have a healthy attitude to housework ;-) (But bless dear Mr Doris for taking up my slack in this department. I love you so much for that but I will do more to help. xxx)
- Britmum said...
- Doris
I love reading your posts. You rock!!
Love Catherine
- doris said...
- Awww thanks Catherine!
- Cheryl said...
- Floor mopping - daffodils.
Daffodils - floor mopping.
Nah I don't get it.
ROFL!
Actually I am dreading the first spring sunshine because I know it will cast light on a few horrors in this house........
Nice words!
- ChelseaFCChick said...
- I haven't had a mad moment of voluntary housework, such as your moment of mopping, in a while. I'm usually a slightly obsessive neat freak (lol) and often this leads me to mad moments of getting things done late at night or first thing in the morning.
Suddenly, with all this talk of mopping, my kitchen floor looks filthy lol! Maybe its the pregnancy but I haven't got the energy to follow in your footsteps and get it done before bed this time:-)
- Joe said...
- Doris you are becoming a domestic godess! You can come and mop my floor in your 50s frock anytime you like ;-) (Come to think of it, maybe I'd like to do that!)
Lovely poem hon :-)
Firm stems? LOL.
Joe x
- doris said...
- Cheryl! I obviously have uncharted depths! :-)
Sarah So you're back! I hope you had a nice trip to the UK but I'll catch up on your blog. I'm definitely NOT a neat freak and refute any suggestions that I am! ;-)
Joe LOL we can fight over the dress and the pinny! It's the way you say "firm stems" that now makes it sound dodgy. Tch! Philistine! ;-)
- ella m. said...
- I will have to have hope for a metaphorical spring blossom, as the thermometer is still at winter coat level. :)
- Badaunt said...
- Cheryl: Daffodils + floor mopping = SPRING CLEANING!
You're not thinking sideways enough. :-)
(Lovely poem)
- Le laquet said...
- Ah yes the joys of spring ~ raining here!!! Mind you at least that'll mean I can wash ... Simon informs me that baths in Kent are about to be banned (I have no idea where he got that snippet from either!)
- MattyD said...
- Spring is here?! I think it forgot Sussex :(
- Writer Mom said...
- And Indiana, too!
(I swear I stopped in a few days back, but my comment must have gotten the axe by the computer nut kid. It was just me making fun of my lack of housekeeping.)
Bless you for being springy!
Saturday, 9 July 2005
Headmasters
Laying on my bed reading my latest book, about Tesla's life, I stopped reading to think about what I had read. My mind went off on one of those little obscure journeys it does flitting from one thing to the next when I got to thinking about school life.
I was about eight years old when I was first sent to the headmaster's office for my constant lateness. The lateness was down to my home life and having to make sure the house was cleaned and hoovered before I was able to leave for school. My mother wouldn't let me leave unless it was in a fit state. And then on the way to school I'd try and make up for my miserable life by trying to find an elusive and allegedly lucky, four-leafed clover. I never, ever, found one and I'd end up even later still.
Finally I was sent to the headmaster's office for the lateness. It was terrifying sitting outside the door waiting for I don't know what, when I decided to try and distract myself from the impending doom. (Life is so dramatic when you are a kid!) In a flash I realised I needed a hobby and one that didn't require cost or equipment so I took up "surfaces" as a hobby. Bear with me, this is madness. There I am outside the headmaster's office with my face scrunched up against the walls looking along the surfaces. Noting the smoothness, the roughness, the dents and dips, all sorts. I was quite pleased with myself as I reckoned it was a great hobby and one that I could do anywhere.
The distraction obviously worked because I really can not remember how it went with the headmaster or what happened next. But all these years later I can still see those surfaces and how the corridor looked outside the headmaster's office.
Another time I was sent to the headmaster was when I was 16. I had found myself a job, accommodation and a new life and run away from home. I was away for a very successful week which is another story, but because I had told just one friend an idea of where I had gone, she cracked under pressure from my parents and I was hauled home once they had found me.
It was with great humiliation I appeared as requested at the headmaster's office together with my mother. He went on and on and then turned to me in his booming voice and asked "what have you got to say for yourself young girl?". I didn't know I thought. What sort of question was that. I couldn't tell him the truth of my home life and as my mind whirred overtime I thought I wasn't going to say I was sorry and in any case I knew that if I said sorry he would just go on and on as it was just a facile response. So I said what I think any self-respecting, under-developed, under-sized scrap of a girl would do and I told him quite confidently in response "I want to join the navy". On reflection, as an adult, I think my response completely undermined the situation and he did his utmost not to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He didn't laugh but I don't think the lecture lasted for too long after that.
Original Comments:
- Badaunt said...
- You had greater inner resources than I did when I was eight, clearly. (You have also inspired a blog post.)
- Cheryl said...
- I didn't have your childhood, but only because my mum did.
Would we change what happened, knowing it would change who we are? Its difficult. But I have to say that luck or that childhood fashioned you into a very independant, strong, reliable, resilient, quick thinking and caring person, and into someone determined to see joy, to look for the cracks in the clouds.
So ner. xxxxxx
- doris said...
- Many a time I've heard an old bloke (always men) say how they thank their father (usually) for the beatings as it made him into the man he is. I have to say that I have never once adopted those thoughts.
As to whether these experiences craft us into the people we are today then there is no doubt there has to be an element. But I reckon there is another element which comes from within and is unique to everyone that converts our experiences into positive or negative behaviours. And heaven knows, I have had enough negative internal mechanisms going on and to overcome.
After much self-analysis and therapy I am over my childhood so it is no longer an issue - but it is interesting for me to share this now. And to talk about situations I have never told anyone.
I actually thought this story was quite funny! You know how it is having to be parked outside a head teacher's office can be so scary for a kid.
- Cheryl said...
- I want to join the Navy - brilliantly funny. But in the same way it was funny when my eldest, aged seven, shut up a nosey neighbour. The woman cornered her to find out where my first husband had gone to rather than ask me - poor kid. Her answer to 'so why havent I seen your dad recently?' was 'he works nights'. To us now, yes its funny. Immediate and very human reaction was to tear a strip off the neighbour.
- Fidget said...
- I was NEVER (ok over exaggeration) late for school. The fear of having to go home and say i missed the bus...... oh golly
- doris said...
- Gosh Badaunt! That is quite a vivid story of yours.
Ooo - hello Fidget, I shall come visit.
Cheryl - thank goodness for our brilliant kids with their quips.
- Bernadette said...
- With your kind permission, Doris, I might borrow your line today!
Continued prayers and thoughts for your friends and family...
- doris said...
- Go for it Bonnie - it will be interesting to see where it goes :-)
- Thaleia said...
- Going to the prinicipal office is never 'fun'... you added a nice little twist with you're 'going to the navy' part...
Running away from home is never easy... Are you still in contact with the home front now... I left home (leaving just a note) 5 years ago and since 3 years we've been in contact again... I must say it does feel good to have 'm back in my life again.. although things have changed a lot between us...
Take care
- doris said...
- Hi Thaleia - that first time was 7 days; the second time a few months later, when I was legally old enough to leave school, I was gone about 2.5 years; and then over the next 12 year we had some major falling outs until the ultimate one when I finally broke free psychologically. There seems to be a family thing with each generation being estranged from the previous so when my kids were both younger I decided I didn't want this cycle to continue and that I had to break it. We all have contact now, a lot of it even, but I wouldn't call it happy families but it does. I'm looking forward to coming to visit your blog :-)
PS. On a funny note, excuse the pun, did you have to think hard as to where to leave the note? I did and found that the back of the fridge was quite good. You see, I had had a failed attempt to leave in which my brother intercepted me so this time I left with minimum stuff (the first time I even packed my typewriter!) and with stealth so that I could get as much distance before it was realised.
Heaven forbid if my kids should ever have to go to the efforts I did. My daughter is 15 and hopefully a lot happier than I ever was.
- doris said...
- Cheryl has also written on this theme. So funny!
- PresentStorm said...
- HIya ..here via Michele's :)
- jane said...
- I was anticipating so many different things you were going to blurt out. Going to the navy wasnt one of them! I caught myself laughing too.
The hurt you felt as a child came thru loud & clear. So sorry.
- Milt Bogs said...
- Surfaces sounds good to me. I'm off to give it a go right now.
- Karen said...
- I was always late for school too - Mine was due to my love of making daisy chains - I would often arrive an hour or so late but I had some great daisy chains to show for it.
- Pookie65 said...
- I would love to have seen the look on the headmasters face. From the mouth of a babe comes a statement of a confidence and assurance.
Not sure if this is a hobby so much as a habit but as I child I started scratching paper. Every type of paper had a unique feel to it. Newspaper was (still is) very grainy to be so thin. And construction paper made ther hair on my arms stand up. To this day I catch myself scratching paper. Perhaps "surface" hobbies aren't so odd afterall. (Why did I just tell you this?)
Anyway, you are a wonderful storyteller. Thanks for sharing.
- doris said...
- Pookie65 - I can relate to that! And I don't think I could really call my activity a hobby either but I did. (I enjoyed visiting your blog!)
Karen - Ahhh, did you ever tell your teacher the real reason why you were late?
Milt - Enjoy! I did.... and still do! :-)
Jane - Glad you laughed because I did once I re-read what I had written. The whole scenario is just absurd.
Hello Presentstorm - we've visited each other before.
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- guest said...
- You were obviously a very imaginative girl child with a good sense of humor. With the strict discipline your mom put you through when you were younger it’s amazing you turned out to be as balanced of a person as you seem to be right now. Even though you never found that 4-leaf clover it appears that luck has been on your side all along.
- doris said...
- Aww Kilroy :-) I think if one has the appearance of being balanced then others think you are until you actually feel it yourself. A bit like walk the talk, I think?!
It is true I have been ever so lucky in so many ways. I could never have guessed back then the wonderful life I have now. There is something to be said for not giving up.
- arrazello said...
- I think you and I have something in common. I too was always late and my attendance was unbelievably bad (the truant officer was always around our house). Similar reasons kept me away from school - I was the oldest of nine, lots of home responsibilities. Yep and I left home at 16 but I never ent back!
- doris said...
- Isn't it sad - I bet your parent/s never thought they would lose contact with their eldest. That is not a judgement, just an observation.
But isn't it great to be an adult and away from all that! :-)
- arrazello said...
- I left home because my mum threw me out for washing my clothes too much. She said she couldn't afford the electric! Maybe I should do a little blog on that. Never heard such a petty reason before.
Still....
I never held a grudge for long.
- Anomaly Resource said...
- Which Tesla book was it?
I read "Tesla: The Modern Sorcerer", by Daniel Blair Stewart and loved it! I realize that a lot of people say it's for kids, but even most of the critics said they enjoyed it. I want to read Tesla's autobiography, but haven't gotten around to it yet...
By the way, you've said that you and your husband are interested in Velikovsky. Well, I just found a very interesting site run by a group of historians who are preserving Velikovsky's unpublished works. I already printed out "In the Beginning" and I'm almost done with it! It makes "Worlds in Collision" look tame!
http://www.varchive.org/
- doris said...
- Hi Anomaly!
It is Tesla: Man out of Time Margaret Cheney
I'm still reading it so it hasn't been quite as compelling but I'm still enjoying it otherwise I wouldn't continue.
Your book sounds great! There are a lot of so-called kids books which I think more adults should read. I understand that when computers were becoming more popular that the children's Ladybird book on Computers was the first book of choice for the British Civil Service! It was good - I bought a copy too.
Thanks for the link. I know little about Velikovsky so am always delighted when someone else knows of him.
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I am sure that your daughter will realise spreading her wings is harder than she thought and she will pop back to the nest often.
Take care and lots of hugs to you xx
Sweetheart - what a lovely, loving post! A big moment...but as it should be, you've trained her for the world and off she goes to make her way with all the love that you have given her over the years. And she will be back, as she grows and matures...she will, I'm sure.
And the next one is on his way too...which is great and healthy and what you need to happen, though it must be hard.
You come across as a lovely Mummy, keeping your wings wrapped around them when they needed it. And now your wonderful Mr Doris has his wrapped around you - which you so deserve.
Awwww (again) I'm getting all choked up here! ;-)
Major Hugs to a lovely Mummy Bird!
I love my mum again. It does go round full circle, I promise. :-)
I have to admit there is already light. Daughter has only been gone just a shade over a week and already been back for two meals with us and a long sleep on the sofa! The best bit was to report that she was already fed up with the laziness of her flatmates and that they don't clean up their dishes. Hallelujah! Now she knows what it is like.
Good thing is that she is doing brilliantly well with her job and that I think she is coping well.
And on one of her many phone calls home I even got her to say she loved me on the mobile in front of the friends she had invited over to her place. She mumbled it when she didn't have to say it at all as I was only teasing her. So great :-D
And Chandira - I can't find the post you are talking about :-(