Blind Spots and the Rear View Mirror

It’s currently quite difficult not to hear John & Yoko/Plastic Ono Band with the Harlem Community Choir informing us that “Another Year’s over/and a new one just begun…” because–yes, *yawn*–Christmas has once again arrived at the station called ‘Annual Festivities’ yet still nobody’s thought to remove the N and the U from the middle of the first word to give us all something to laugh about.

Just like all those scary scenes from ‘SPEED’, it would seem there’s no way of preventing this traincrash event from happening, so I thought I’d look back at my own sliver of 2022 and use it as a kind of reflective lesson on things I really don’t want to happen during the next 12 months.

I’m also taking part in Susannah Conway‘s December Reflections, where she gives a prompt for the 31 days of the month and asks participants to convey their ideas on Instagram (I’m here: https://www.instagram.com/debswrites) in whatever way they like. I’ve done it a few times over the years and apart from making the countdown to Christmas less anxiety-inducing, I find it a good way to focus my hive-mind first thing every morning, and connect with accounts I might have an affinity with. This year I thought I’d do something different and produce ‘covers’ of books/magazine, because that’s something I’ve enjoyed creating in 2022.

Although ‘enjoy’ is not one of the words I can truthfully say has been on my lips or in my heart very much these past 12 months. Partly because I’m not a naturally cheerful person anyway, and partly because of things that happened which I’m still struggling to come to terms with.

It’s no secret that during the first trimester of the creative writing MA I studied in 2020/2021, I was diagnosed ADHD. The meds I was subsequently prescribed definitely gave me a concentration and focus I’ve only ever found naturally a couple of times in my life, and helped me through that year-long course, to a–still slightly unbelievable–distinction.

So, Neurodiverse, I became–and, actually always was, but for the era I grew up in and but for parents who found my ‘behaviour’ an irritant and not a delight as parents are meant. As a newly-diagnosed Neurodiverse person, I began to look more deeply into it. In fact, Researched. Because research is something I’m very good at and enjoy doing but have never been able to put a name to. I always considered what I was doing when I lost hours or days absorbed in something (again, thanks era, thanks parents) that I was wasting my time on irrelevant things to avoid doing other, more important things.

Things such as getting up, getting dressed, doing homework, getting ready for bed, cleaning my room, walking the dog. Latterly, managing a filing system at work, managing anything at work… whilst keeping a child and/or marriage alive and maintaining the illusion I also kept house.

Once I was diagnosed I joined various Facebook groups and discovered more things. Things which shone lights so brightly on SO many other parts of my life that I needed sunglasses to move from one to the next.

One of the brightest lights came when I noticed a lot of references to body pain; chronic pain; constant pain… all in areas I’d been enduring pain myself. My entire ber-luddy life.

No, mother, they weren’t “growing pains”. And no, it’s not a good idea to “push through the pain barrier” because that wrecks you for weeks afterwards, during which you blame yourself for being pathetic and frail and useless.

I’ve posted about the revelation that came with the Fibromyalgia diagnosis on this site, so I won’t go into it all again. Suffice is to say that, along with the ADHD diagnosis, to discover these random ‘aches and pains’ which I hardly mentioned to friends and family let alone to my GP because I thought it made me sound like a whining old woman, had an actual name, was an actual condition, was an extraordinary moment of relief.

Because I wasn’t making it all up. I wasn’t doing ‘it’ to get attention. I also wasn’t somehow causing this pain myself (bad shoes, bad posture, cheap mattress, wrong pillow, too many car crashes).

These were other, neurodiverse people like me who’d suffered-mainly in silence because they thought they wouldn’t be listened to- and had been overlooked for decades. I’d found my tribe (as they say).

Comorbidity is a great word. I’ve never been in a position to use it very much, if at all, before now. But these days I use it with great relish and with knowledge I didn’t have before. Because, as I may have mentioned, I’m a natural researcher and gatherer of information. I’m a Filofax and didn’t know it (I’ll work on that; it’s not snappy enough).

One of ADHD’s comorbidities–along with Fibromyalgia–is Autism which I’m still not sure is meant to be capitalized. Unlike its prior name, Asperger’s. I’ll check. (Although I won’t. Because if I do it now, this post will remain in ‘draft’ until the arse end of February).

The more I looked into autism traits, the more I saw myself reflected straight back.

While ADHD perfectly describes my brain’s executive dysfunctionality and emotional dysregulation, discovering the mechanics of an autistic mind caused me to recognise parts of my deepest, darkest behaviour that could only be attributable to this.

At one stage I considered I might actually have borderline personality disorder (BPD) because of the hellish depths to which my mind often plummets – and plummets screamingly swiftly. But I don’t feel I need anything to ‘formally’ confirm that I have death ideation and often I see suicide as the only solution to painful situations. Situations where I can visualise no other recourse. In fact, my Exit door is a comfort to me. It’s something over which I feel I have absolute control… apart from the when a knee-jerk decision to suddenly execute it goes spectacularly wrong, lurching my life into an abyss I hadn’t banked on being alive to witness. But let’s not go there. Not yet.

One ‘famous’ trait of the condition is the sense an autistic person has of disengagement, detachment – a disassociation from life and from people around them.

A lot of autistic people are the subjects of bullying. I was. Recently I worked out one of the reasons why I might have been such a prime target.

I did a lot of staring.

A lot.

Not full-eye-contact, you understand (another ‘famous trait’) but with a determination that if I studied these other human beings hard enough, I could work out the way they did and said things. Because if I learned how to act like them, I might ‘become’ one of them and fit in.

Although studying human behaviour, I discovered, was probably best left to experts. Because all I got in return for hours and hours of constant research was much spitting, punching, kicking, pinching and (one time) an actual stab in the back. Parental advice in those days was basically ‘ignore them’, along with the trusty Sticks and stones… rhyme.

But this rhyme has always rubbed me up the wrong way. It’s because it doesn’t make sense to me. Because where sticks and stones DO physically hurt and leave wounds which scar over and render the skin more tender in future, words actually have a far greater, much deeper, more lasting effect.

You can’t un-hear words. They’re there.

They move from somebody’s mouth, through the air, enter your ear and there they remain, filed away in that storage unit of a brain for life. And all it takes is the flap of a butterfly’s wings in another continent for these words to be roused from their safe compartment and flutter to the forefront of the mind. Words never leave. Words hurt in ways that a common house brick could never imagine.

I think I might be on the verge of digressing, which is something I do. Have always done. And now I know why. There are too many ‘things’ in my head to keep them all–even a single one–on a straight course. The only thing I can safely do is write them down (another thing I’ve always done) so that I can see them in an order, sift through them and ensure they take on a shape; make sense. This is what I have attempted to do with this post. I began it yesterday., I hated it the longer it got, and I was sorely tempted to delete the whole thing in embarrassment. But I saved it in drafts and went through it again earlier on. It’s not as bad as I thought. It’s better now it’s had some attention. But then isn’t everything….?

That’s the rear view mirror sorted out. The blindspots cropped up somewhere in the middle and I’m still not ready to talk about them. Let’s get the festivities over with first, shall we?

Wish I Was There…

At the start of this year, following the usual ‘happy new year’ text messages that we invariably send to everyone on our phone contacts list (unless you’re neurodiverse and then you systematically filter out those you don’t believe would care whether they received a message or not then realise you’re left with less than four—maybe just me, then) I happened to mention—during an extended back and forth chat—to someone I used to share a house and who married one of my ex boyfriends, that thankfully this festive season I hadn’t had to try and contact The Samaritans.

She thought I was joking, because that’s how she remembers me being. Always the joker. And because we lost touch when I left the town we both lived in, five years ago now, we hadn’t kept the relationship going. Not the way we had done in the past when we’d try and meet up during school breaks. You know how it is. Geographical, fair-weather, call it what you will; if the wheels of momentum start to slow, then in all likelihood it’ll grind to a halt. No blame on either side. It’s just the way things seem to go in our disposable age.

So when I went on to explain that, yes, I had felt a need to reach out—to someone who wasn’t close to me (slim pickings already) because I hadn’t wanted to ruin anyone’s festive season by telling them how miserable and lonely I felt, and The Samaritans had seemed the only recourse, she’d seemed genuinely shocked and told me she was my friend and we would stay in touch.

Which has turned out to be virtually every day since then… and it’s been lovely.  We don’t do actual speaking calls or zoom sessions or anything, we simply text and send each other the occasional picture of where we are at the time we’re chatting. There are pets, and images of our gardens. I love it. I feel connected again.

Anyway, she works in a school in the town I moved away from, and when I lived there, I also worked in a school and she was saying this morning how much she’s looking forward to the summer break which I think begins at the end of this week for the private ones as they always get way longer than state funded schools. 

I told her I remembered well, the feeling of the six-week summer break getting closer and closer as the last Friday in July crept ever nearer, and although my body would be longing to not have to get up at 6.30am, four mornings a week and endure an exhausting four hours of physical work on those days, I also knew that my heart and soul would be affected much differently.

Because at the start of every summer break over the 12 years I worked there—which is a record for a neurodiverse person I’ve since discovered; generally, we jump from job to job in a bid to top-up dopamine levels—I’d feel what I can only describe as a kind of bereavement on the last day.

Not being a member of the teaching staff, I wasn’t laden down with ‘thank you’ cards and gifts from the children and their parents, although we support staff did get the occasional plant or box of chocolates from teachers or the management team as a thank-you for our hard work over the term. It was nice to be appreciated and some of their comments were lovely.

As an undiagnosed neurodiverse person who wasn’t a member of the teaching staff, I’d never formed a close friendship with other staff members. Although I did have a friendly connection with the SENCo Coordinator (now there’s irony!). Her office was next to mine, so that could easily have been simply geography again. I’d tried socializing with some of the office staff, but my natural mistrust and my discomfort in social settings, which must’ve been perceived by others as weirdness on my part, meant that these fledgling ‘relationships’ fizzled out before they had a chance to begin.

And so, as the last day of term drew nearer, I could sense an ever-growing frisson of excitement. The atmosphere around me would start to morph into something wholly different from the cut-and-dried, timetabled one I was used to as everyone prepared to celebrate not having to be there for six weeks. It was like watching the scores trickle through for the Eurovision Song Contest. There’d be after-school drinks in the staff room on the last day; everyone swapping dates they’d be free during the holidays; arrangements to meet up—a group used to go on regular camping holidays—and I’d start feeling familiar little pinches of exclusion, Missing-Out syndrome.

Although it wasn’t that I wanted to join in any of these extra-curricular pursuits. I think it was more that I could feel the support structure I was so used to having during my working week, slowly dissolving and I knew that soon I’d be left to my own devices, need to fill in whole blank days with ‘things’ to do for myself.

Which I’ve never felt remotely qualified to do.

I also used to find the teachers dropping their ‘mask’ of Miss or Sir, disconcerting, which I think stems from the ADHD mind requiring stability and routine… it’s how I’ve often felt seeing someone famous walking along the street going about regular human business – it tends to explode a little part of my brain because it Does. Not. Compute. They’re in the wrong place and doing the wrong thing. It bothers me. A lot.

And so, as I packed up my bits and pieces on the last day, I’d stare wistfully around my room and make a mental note of where everything was so that I could pick up where I left off in six weeks’ time, I had to convince myself to hold it together, often biting the inside of my cheek to distract my emotions with physical pain, until I’d left the building.

Once I’d driven out of the school gates, pausing at the crossroads and traffic lights at the end of the road, the surge of emotion would be too much to bear, and the wall I’d built up would start to crack and I’d let the tears fall, often necessitating pulling over at my ‘rescue place’ to sob myself dry. Then I’d spend a while composing myself and concocting a tale of irritated ‘computer-eye’ before I went home so I wouldn’t cause concern once I got there.

And I’d spend the next six weeks counting down the days until I could return. In fact, often I’d go in during the summer break on the pretext that it was quiet and I could get a lot of things done (I managed the display boards and other creative aspects including the school website). But on those times, it was so far from normality, like being the last one to leave a wake.

My friend says she can’t wait. She’s lined up all these things she wants to do and I envy her excitement. Because all I ever did during those torturous weeks was endure a week’s ‘holiday’ which was never something I enjoyed because I hated the disruption, and, every time I caught sight of a clock, wonder wistfully what I’d be doing now if I was at work.

The Making of a Hot Mess

We hardly ever visited our GP in the 1970s, as most ailments were roundly fixed with a liberal swathe of Vaseline and a damp flannel to our foreheads. You think I’m joking.

But, aged 15 or thereabouts, my mother took me to the GP to see if there was anything he could prescribe for the incredibly painful periods I’d endured for the past six or so years. Up until then I’d coped the only way I’d been taught how, which was by a) appreciating that every woman got them and I was no different, so just stop moaning and get on with it, b) paracetamol, and c) hot water bottles.

My mother had the same opinion over making unnecessary fuss as she did with the passing of wind: she wouldn’t have it anywhere near her and she wouldn’t tolerate it from other people. To her, it indicated a complete lack of social grace, and speaking to a stranger about parts of our bodies fell into this category as well.

She hadn’t wanted to accompany me to this appointment, I knew that. Because for her, having a period was embarrassment enough, so to voluntarily speak of the condition to a person who was also a man, took the subject to a stratospheric level of shame.

My symptoms were:

• Lasting irritability or anger
• Feelings of sadness or despair, even thoughts of suicide
• Feelings of tension or anxiety
• Panic attacks
• Mood swings or crying often
• Lack of interest in daily activities and relationships
• Trouble thinking or focusing
• Tiredness or low energy
• Food cravings or binge eating
• Trouble sleeping
• Feeling out of control
• Physical symptoms, such as cramps, bloating, breast tenderness, headaches, and joint or muscle pain

Which are now known to be symptoms of PMDD, or premenstrual dysphoric disorder. It’s a comorbidity for neurodiverse folk, but of course we hadn’t been invented back then.

It’s also genetic and I knew that my cousin used to pass out with her period pan and be kept away from school. However, it wasn’t until I was in the sixth form and therefore personally responsible for turning up to my classes, that I gave myself the permission to stay at home when discomfort was intolerable.

Of course, to my parents, my absence from school was seen as skiving, laziness, but a lot of things I did were attributed to my slovenly ways and I’d learnt to expect this. So I’d stay in my room and only appear at mealtimes. Which unfortunately only exacerbated the notion of my idleness because then I was “treating the house like a hotel; expecting to be waited on hand and foot while others slaved away to keep a roof over my head”. Those kinds of things. And I didn’t respond because I’d tried that in the past. Any form of reply to any of these damning statements was called ‘backchat’ and, surprise, surprise, that was also not allowed. For example, picture this scene:

17-year-old me is on the sofa, a hot water bottle at her belly, an A-level set text open in her hands. She is pale and clammy and trying to concentrate on the words over the noise of Jimmy Young’s chatter which filters through from the radio in the kitchen. (Bear in mind that 17-yo-me also has undiagnosed ADHD making reading a difficult enough task without distractions). And in the kitchen, my mother is making one of her points by banging pans and rattling cutlery; opening and shutting doors and drawers; getting angry with the dog who just wants to be let outside (sensible dog), proving that she is gainfully employed… as opposed to her layabout daughter who’s acting like the Queen of bloody Sheba as usual.

Mother, just as any other element about to reach boiling point, finally stalks in and hovers over me, wielding a culinary version of the sword of Damocles.

Mum: “I suppose it would be too much to hope you might tidy your bedroom this afternoon as you’re obviously not doing anything else.”

Me (having carefully selected the least inflammatory response): “I’m reading a course book and I’m in a lot of pain right now. I’ll do it another time.”

Mum (incredulous): “Pain? Ha! You don’t know the meaning of the word… and let me tell you, if you were in the kind of pain I’m in half the time, you wouldn’t be lazing about with your nose in a book. Not when there’s housework to do, washing to hang out and dinner to prepare. You wouldn’t have caught me behaving like this in front of my mother… you know your poor Nan had left school and had already worked for two years bringing up her brother and sisters at your age. I don’t know who you think you are half the time.”

I don’t give a response (remember I’d learnt not to ‘backchat’) and so Mother storms back to the kitchen and turns the radio up.

I suppose she’d released her pressure valve and got some of her ire out of her head. But my goodness those barbed comments stung. No, sting; because they endure, no matter how much mindfulness I give them, or how much distance I know has passed. Comments like these, despite decades of therapy and the one time I scribbled them all onto a roll of toilet paper then wiped my arse with them (yes, really) will never go away. They’re stitched into the fabric of my psyche.

It’s never occurred to me to wonder if things might’ve been different had they kept a chart to see when my perceived episodes of ‘idleness’ materialised. Not once. Because for a parent to take a note of such things would necessitate their concern or interest, which was in short supply growing up. Although I’d have done it; done it like a shot for my own girl if I’d seen her suffering in any way. And if she’d found strength enough to come downstairs and attempt to read a school book then I’d have applauded her and tucked a blanket around her, not stood over her virtually deriding her very existence.

Anyway, back to the GP appointment a year or so before this fictional sofa scene.

Whilst at the surgery, our GP also heard that I was “getting myself into a state” at the thought of catching a bus to either school or my Saturday job at Boots in the next town. In 2022, my ‘state’ would be flagged as social anxiety.

Back then I remember shaking and sweating as I persuaded myself to get ready in the mornings, knowing that once in public (and both Boots and school are VERY public places), I’d start stammering and blushing. Thankfully I’d only dry heave at home and not throw up because I’d learnt to avoid eating breakfast. And these symptoms naturally increased around the time that my period was due. I swear I only ever felt whatever ‘normal’ was meant to feel like, for around 5 days a month; and that was on a good month.

After our doctor had listened and nodded at some of the ‘states’ I was getting myself into (myself; as though I had a choice in the matter), he leant over and patted my mum’s hand, reassuring the wrong person that it was “Just her nerves, Mrs Cooper, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

For my period pain, I was prescribed the mini-pill which, the GP explained (again, to Mother) along with being a contraceptive, had the blessed side-effect of decreasing pain severity and which many young girls were choosing to take to help with their monthlies.

My mother, however, had clearly stopped listening once her ears had picked up the word ‘contraceptive’.

Because when we arrived home via a pharmacy we didn’t normally use, she made me stand up straight in the kitchen and whilst she shook the packet of pills at my—paralysed-with-fear—face, informed me in no uncertain terms that if she decided to let me take these, then they were not “an excuse to start behaving like a slut, however much you want them to be,” and stormed off; probably in search of our poor, gentle dog who shouldered a lot of collateral damage when Mother was on the warpath.

It’s no wonder I’m such a hot mess nearly fifty years later.

Rugs & Towels

Maybe it’s because I turned sixty this year. Maybe it’s because an ADHD diagnosis has afforded me greater realisation. Maybe it’s because I’ve discovered that the aches and pains I always put down to sleeping/sitting/ standing weirdly are actually undiagnosed Fibromyalgia – a comorbidity of ADHD and equally undiagnosed – for which I’ve self-medicated my entire life.

Maybe it’s because my current counsellor has said the same thing countless other therapists have told me over the years which is a variation of: “It does seem that the rug is pulled from under your feet quite a lot”.

Yes, that’s precisely how it seems. And maybe it’s just time to admit this. Time also, to admit that I don’t believe -don’t have the strength of mind or body to believe, actually – that this will ever change. Not now.

Maybe it’s a combination of all these things which has led me to a slow-burn belief that it’s time to start being kinder to myself and stop beating myself up. Because I beat myself up a lot. I was trained in the art of self-flagellation from an early age, so it’s instinctive. Something happens (bad) and immediately I know it’s my fault. Even if I’m nowhere near The Thing. Even if there’s no clear connection to me and The Thing. And if there isn’t a clear indication that I am to blame, then I will find a way to make it be my fault. Because it makes The Thing easier to handle.

A lot of people over the years have called me pessimistic; the original Debbie Downer. And I always countered that I’m not a Pessimist, I’m a Realist. These are two entirely different beasts. A Pessimist expects Bad Things to happen and sees negativity in any given situation, and a Realist knows Bad Things happen, so runs through every possible scenario in their head to ensure that when it does, it doesn’t impact too greatly on those they care about.

That’s the difference.

Before being diagnosed ADHD, I assumed this was one of my weird personality traits, something else that alienated me from people who thought positively and believed in Good Things happening. But now I know that my brain is simply wired to scramble (as in ‘action stations!’, not a mess of eggs) scenarios in the space of a few seconds to make sure every eventuality is considered, and ready for good or bad. It’s my Amygdala bracing itself in Fight or Flight, and has nothing to do with only seeing a negative. It’s my survival mode. It’s prehistoric. Instinctive.

Proving this point is the very real fact that I have, from a very young age, aspired to be a proper, published writer. From when the story I wrote about my best friend was accepted by the local newspaper as their story of the week and I had my photo taken and was paid £5.00 for it. I honestly believed this was the first step on the path of my life. How’s that for optimism?

A year or so before, I’d co-written a script for Fawlty Towers (still on its initial airing at the time) and sent it to the BBC, who returned it with a compliments slip suggesting I took a degree in English or an apprenticeship in scriptwriting, which wasn’t going to happen if I wasn’t allowed to go to art school. But I remained utterly convinced that writing was my future. Writing was my friend.

I’d kept a diary from the age of 13, recording daily events, and separately I’d write about things had happened at school which had affected me. I’d write about it without restriction and hide it away. Which was how I came to write the story that the newspaper published. It was a celebration of the friendship I’d had with my best friend, and the gaping hole that his absence since going to university had left me with. It released burning emotions and placed them in a recognisable black-and-white form.

With the success in the local newspaper, I sent the story to magazines, although I hadn’t considered their demographics. I’d naively assumed that all short stories were equal, so when the rejections came back – by royal mail in those days – I felt felt sorely disappointed.

Although one editor sent me something else, and I wish to this day that I’d held onto his letter, because it’s the One Thing my mind returns to when I consider my early days of believing things might happen. He wrote that although he’d enjoyed my story and could see humour and talent, it wasn’t the right ‘fit’ for his publication however…. however... because he liked my style, he said he’d like to chat about future commissions should I ever find myself in London EC4… he wrote his telephone extension number at the magazine.

I knew that this was an opportunity; it fizzed in my veins and filled me with unparalleled joy. But my parents didn’t see it the same way and refused to let me go. *sound of rug-pulling*. I was weeks away from leaving school, finishing my A-levels, and I’d already been told I couldn’t go to art college. *more rug-pulling*

Now they were telling me I couldn’t pursue another ambition. My mother, believing London was a den of iniquity, insisted that this editor was only after “one thing” (because that was all they thought I was good for), telling me “you’ll have plenty of opportunities to go gallivanting around London once you’ve grown up and left home.”

I don’t remember sending the editor a reply. What would I have said? My mum and dad won’t let me?

And I believed them. Why wouldn’t I? I did believe that more opportunities like this would come my way, so I carried on writing stories and sending them to magazines. I borrowed money to enrol on the London School of Writing correspondence course to further my writing education, and continued believing I was doing the right thing whilst working jobs that depressed me and exploited me, writing well into the night once I was home, to dispel the grubbiness I felt from my days.

I held onto this belief for another forty years, through shitty jobs, failed marriages (a successful stint at single-motherhood, however) and rubbish relationships, all the time self-medicating a brain disorder I never knew I had. I joined writing groups, submitted every novel I wrote to agents with a pause for two years when I came so close to representation that the eventual rejection physically hurt. A student loan gave me a BA(Hons), I threw divorce settlement finances at a writing mentor who promised things that didn’t materialize. I took out another loan out for a Masters where I gained a distinction and my manuscript tutor convinced me this novel was The One which reminded me of the way my last husband fed me superlatives, whipping my mind into a frenzy of sky-high beliefs which always came crashing down around my ears.

I feel I’ve done so, SO much to stay on the damned rug to realise this long-held dream of writing to be published, that I’m actually winded by it all.

I joined all the social media platforms, followed all the right accounts in a bid to make connections; entered every competition I could afford (some I’ve been ‘listed’ in), inveigled my way into conversations and signed up to writing group subscriptions hoping to further my path. When I stopped working I signed up to LinkedIn, hoping I might find a route to paid writing there, but every application I’ve made has been ghosted (that’s ‘ignored’, right?) and now I’m exhausted. Nearly as exhausted as I used to get waiting for my parents, employers, hell, anyone, to say something positive about me.

Every morning when I open my emails I find invitations to join writing groups, to read about another debut author’s path to publication and how tough it was getting twenty (yes, 20!) rejections before securing their dream agent. I get offers to take myself off on writing retreats where the magic will happen, which I can’t afford even if I did have the mental and physical ability to attend. Twitter announces proud publishers and agents advertising their latest signed author, the authors themselves unbridled with joy, and my already shattered soul breaks into ever-tinier pieces.

I now feel more removed from the world of writing than I ever have. I suppose from having tried so hard to get precisely nowhere. My age isn’t in my favour either, despite all the links I see about successful authors debuting in the twilight of their years. Holding onto hope now feels more like clutching at straws, and I’m done.

I’ve cancelled subscriptions, I’m unfollowing agents, publishers, editors, authors. Anything I see that that presses fingers into my bruised soul, I’m letting go. Because I think it’s about time I did let it go, and I can’t say I didn’t try. Which seems a fitting note to end on, because teachers always wrote: “Deborah really must try harder”, despite that undiagnosed kid trying so hard it left wounds.

Cheers

My relationship with alcohol must have begun in the womb. I remember a very lit fag hanging out of the corner of my mother’s mouth as she changed my younger brother’s nappy once (I think there’s even pictorial proof somewhere) so I’m assuming, in those halcyon days of the sixties where the medical profession hadn’t considered either form of recreational habit a ‘drug’ as such, that she might also have continued drinking during both our nine-month tenancies.

We had a lovely, plump-fronted, very glossy, walnut drinks cabinet in our living room at home. Even now, just remembering how the two front doors being opened (at the same time using both hands) delivered such a heady waft of alcohol-imbued wood is enough to catapult me back to Christmasses, Birthdays or any-other-days where it automatically followed that—once open—the adults would smile more, laugh a little and relax a lot; our very own Pandora’s box.

And aren’t we guided by these innate, formative lessons? I absolutely connected the pink-cheeked mother—as opposed to the pinch-lipped, pale-faced one—with cheerfulness, Christmasness and, yes, the drinks cabinet doors having been opened at some point. So for me this veritable theatre of varying-sized bottles containing different-hued liquids (where also resided a tempting jar of cocktail cherries in juice and an assortment of plastic fancy-headed sticks with which to impale them which is making me salivate just writing this) meant happiness. We’d seen the proof.

Add to this the fact those adults—especially if the liquid interior had made it onto a fancy-doylied covered tray on TOP of the drinks cabinet for the duration of the festive season—made it perfectly clear that this stuff was only to be imbibed by special grown-up humans at special times of the year meant that the cabinet was further embroidered with magic-dust. Even Unicorns weren’t allowed. God, we wanted it so badly. But because we knew we couldn’t have it (and yet often teased by a sherry-dipped finger in secret) until we were much, much taller, it became a kind of goal; dare I say Grail?

In our double-figure years, my brother and I were sometimes allowed a watered-down (again, schooner) of something alcoholic, which, after sipping, we’d screw up our faces and say how disgusting it was; another five or so years and we’d be doing the same with some Benson and Hedges until we’d perfected a way of smoking which didn’t accompany heaving. No, we didn’t like it, and yet we still loved the way it altered our parents’ personalities. They became friendly, more responsive, they’d urge us to join them in a game of darts in the sunlounge, or play Newmarket (with borrowed pennies) with them at the table; sometimes we were even allowed to listen to the racy lyrics of the Benny Hill LP. I know.

I vaguely recall us having ‘home cocktail’ sachets of powdered something or other which, when added to lemonade or Tizer or whatever was handy at the time, was meant to resemble an alcoholic equivalent. There were a lot of vodka-doodaghs and a couple of pineapple coladas which I fondly recall and it gave me the taste. I even feigned placebo-type responses to drinking these sugar-infested drinks: twirling around in a state of drunkenness and being giddy with… well all the twirling I suppose (drunk on the idea at least).

My brother might have been slightly under but I was definitely at the legal age (he was taller than me, so that cancelled out any conjecture) when we visited our local hostelry like the rite of passage. We’d known it to be.  Together. I know; it makes us sound like two Waltons or loved-up siblings in American sitcoms but we weren’t, not really. We bonded over the previously forbidden fruit that was alcohol; now we were the Knights Templar sitting across from one another at a Space-Invader-screened-table-top in the Fox and Hounds and life would never be as thrilling again.

Kids in candy shops? Yep, pretty much. And once I’d learned you get double the impact from a combination of things like… let’s say Brandy and Babycham (with a cocktail cherry sunk to the bottom) then you’d think I’d discovered my personal version of The Wheel. Or Fire. Maybe Penicillin but you get the idea. Life was good. Life was even Gooder when alcohol was involved. And when alcohol was involved there came with it a kind of Get Out of Jail Free card, meaning that whatever rude nonsense I spouted or crazy antics I got up to whilst under the influence, it could all be explained away because of The Alcohol. I couldn’t believe I’d lived all those years without its presence in my life (well, secondary drinking is hardly as effective).

I danced better, I had better ideas of which I took great pleasure expounding; I met a great deal more handsome men who also danced very well (and sang in tune), and either I had a larger circle of friends or else I was seeing double most of the time. Who knows? What actually cared? Not me. Not any of us, not really.

And now let’s fast-forward to today. Not specifically the 18^th October, 2019, but… y’know,more generally.

With age arrives a certain degree of wisdom. Perhaps it’s hindsight, but when you get to your mid-fifties and you only recently (4 years ago and counting) realised that to pet one animal and yet eat another is cruelly hypocritical, then it seems only fair that recognising self-harm should be the next logical step.

I gave up smoking overnight. I gave up eating animals and their various secretions overnight. I have ‘given up’ drinking overnight on several occasions, which begs the question that if it harms nobody other than myself then I’m ok to do it.

The other day (Wednesday, if you’re interested) I had a day out at a place I’d never been to before: Tyntesfield. It’s a “spectacular Victorian Gothic Revival house and estate near Wraxall, North Somerset, England. The house is a Grade I listed building named after the Tynte baronets, who had owned estates in the area since about 1500.” And it exceeded expectations. The weather on Wednesday (for those who follow that sort of thing) was nothing short of glorious: blue skies, little whisps of cloud and a stillness that had us remarking on it. I went with somebody who has a passion for these places; whose interest in them means they are never dull, always fully involved and perhaps the best company I’ve had in my life.

We spent five hours there. Once home, delighted with the day, I made myself something to eat, singing tunes we’d been discussing in the car on the way back. And then I thought what could possibly round the day off any better than a nice glass of crisp, chilled wine? Like a celebration. Such a great day, let’s finish it off with more delightful things (I also watched ‘Moonstruck’ again and forgot how much I loved it) and went to bed a tiddly, happy bunny.

Yesterday I woke with—not so much a taste of regret in my mouth, but—a knowledge that not a lot would get done during the next 24 hours. My head hurt but that was alright, that’s why God invented Panadol, I couldn’t concentrate but that was alright too because I might find inspiration watching the ‘Away to the Country With You’ or similar tellyprog.  And so I had a ‘dry’ (unless you count copious glasses of cranberry juice with sparkling water) day and went to bed feeling lacklustre in the extreme when compared with the previous nights’ humour.

And today I hear you ask? Well, let’s draw up that chair on which Hindsight has sat himself down, shall we? What does he want to tell us? I’ll tell you: he wants us to know that it’s great to feel happy following a delightful day out in excellent company, but sometimes cherries don’t need plopping on top of an already-beautifully-iced cake; it’s already lovely enough as it is. And if that analogy doesn’t work or make any sense then if you give me a few hours and a trip to the Tesco Express, I’m sure I could find innumerable ways of describing precisely what wisdom it is that I want to impart at the conclusion of these, my ramblings.

And afterwards, you can laugh at me, but it won’t matter because I’ll be drunk and expect to be teased.  I’ve a feeling it’s why I enjoy drinking in the first place: so that a lot of the time, other real things don’t matter—or hurt—quite as much.

Silver and Gold

One of the entries in my old school autograph book (remember those?) says:

“Make new friends but keep the old; one is silver, the other, gold”

and I’ve always pondered on the validity of this. It’s a great sentiment, of course, but how much weight does it carry?

I’ve just deleted the whole blog post because all I was doing was making myself sad recalling all the instances that I’d allowed ‘good friends’ to unsettle, upset and basically undermine me. Which is a lot of the time; I learnt from a very early age how to be undermined.  Suffice is to say that the friends I always took to believe were steadfast, strong and true, have never been what I would call real friends; the ones who don’t let you send a text saying ‘I can’t meet you, I’m having a bad day’ and leave it at that; instead they come round with a hug and take over the tea-making and tell you it’s okay to feel sad and they feel sad too sometimes and then stay with you until you feel strong enough to face putting some clothes on. (Nope, never happened, although I’ve been there like a shot in a reverse situation).

Friends don’t (just after you’ve split up with the father of your child) tell you how great it must be being single again and painting the town red while she has to slave over a dinner party for eight (mutual friends) where I couldn’t be included because I’d have been a ‘threat’. Friends also don’t text you an hour before you were due to meet up after you’ve spent weeks trying to convince yourself this won’t kill you because you’ve been a hermit for years and the thought of going outside fills you with fear and dread and her excuse is ‘Realised there’re too many other things to do’.  Real friends don’t….

No. I can’t go on. Reading even these instances back makes me feel like a wuss, a victim a pathetic person who’s never stood up for herself. Maybe that’s why I was bullied so relentlessly at school; I just don’t have the courage, the conviction in myself to believe that I deserve to be treated any better. In fact at times I’ve thought I deserved nothing less.  My parents used to say it was character-building, all the punches and pinches and spits and name-calling I got; they’d sayignore the bullies, they’re“just jealous” but there was nothing about me which could make anybody jealous. I was rubbish at maths, I couldn’t run for a bus let alone a hockey ball, I was skinny, freckly, my hair was terrible, I had braces on my teeth and the only friends I had were also relentlessly bullied. What did they mean: jealous?  I’d spend hours… hours upon hours trying to work out what it was; which was when I started writing: I thought it might be like the ‘workings out’ in tests–maybe the answer would come to me.

It never did.

So latterly, whenever I’ve felt upset by something a ‘friend’ has said, or done, or not said, or not done, I’ve always chalked it up to me being an overly-sensitive soul; they didn’t mean it; they were just trying to be funny; they weren’t thinking properly. And sometimes I even believe it. Sometimes I’d feel a kind of strength knowing that I’d still trust and keep them as my friends, no matter how my feelings might be hurt, because that’s what true friendship was all about; sticking together no matter what.  And if they didn’t say or do  things that I know I would do as their friend, then it didn’t matter; it just meant my expectations were too great; nobody’s perfect, I’m not the only friend they’ve got: I should be grateful they’re my friend at all.  And I’ver never liked to be pushy, which may make me seem ignorant or uninterested. Again, though, it’s the confidence thing; I won’t make a move because I worry I’ll intrude on their -way more- interesting lives. Yet I’m thrilled if somebody makes contact with me. It springboards me into action and I feel wanted and justified and accepted and I’m the best friend in the world. Until there’s a lull and I daren’t make contact again (I even go through the last conversation I had and try to work out what I might have said wrong for them not to have contacted me again since; any subtle indiscretion I may have inadvertently made, any peculiar look I may have cast their way without having meant to?)so really I’m not very good with the whole friendship thing. I don’t know the steps.

So it comes as something of a shock to find that I’ve recently met somebody who could potentially become a ‘friend’. I’ve already (I’d like to think) become ‘friends’ with the person I work with and we have off-the-record/after work meetings at the wine bar next door.  But  just the other day I met somebody who happens to have so much in common with me that at one point I thought I was either talking to myself (wouldn’t be the first time) or that the whole thing had been set up. Someone who’s also only been in Bath for 6 months. Someone who also writes and somebody who has the same taste in art as me because they bought the picture I’d set my own sights on and apologised profusely whilst paying (me) for it when I said as much. I know.

So we’re going to meet up. See if we like one another. See if we have anything else in common. See if the world might be a brighter place for having one another in each of our lives. Because who knows? Longevity doesn’t seem to mean anything other than a shared history of dead people, broken places and sad situations, so why not try something bold and new and fresh?

Disclaimer: If you don’t hear from me again, then perhaps they turned out to be an axe-weilding monster or something equally heinous – but it’s okay – it might’ve been something I’d said and I totally deserved it.

 

 

 

 

The Crane Fly Holiday #memorymonday

I was probably 7 or 8 and my chubbly brother – perched on mother’s shoulders – a mere 4 or 5. We’re standing in the back garden of a holiday chalet home we’d rented out for a week in the summer – probably Hunstanton or Cromer – certainly nothing more exotic than either of those two places.

The lovely lady holding onto my elbow is my beloved Nan (maternal) and the man standing between both ladies is my Grandad (latterly referred to ‘fondly’ as Grumps because of his general demeanour) and dad must’ve taken the picture.

It’s not the greatest of memories because this holiday was one of the most horrific ones I’d ever had and I’ve always labelled it: ‘The Crane Fly Holiday’. The reason for this was simply that the bungalow/chalet had double patio doors (French Windows I think we called them back then) and on the afternoon we’d arrived I’d rushed excitedly over to them to open them up, before realising that the shadowey grey nets covering the glass were actually about a ten thousand (NOT an exaggeration to a 7-year old scaredy cat) Daddy-Long-Legs sunning themselves on the window panes and it’d freaked me right out.  I’d always been afraid of them and this episode merely served to cement the fear. Ten-thousand-fold ;).

My brother who never seemed afraid of anything  (and I often wonder if this holiday might’ve given him all the ammunition he’d needed) used to catch these leggy flies and run after me with their flailing limbs poking out from his fist threatening to put them in my hair and I would run away screaming (increasing the hatred I already had for this usurper of my parents’ affections).  I actually only ‘re-learnt’ not to be frightened of them when I became a single parent when I also briefly ‘overcame’ my  fear of spiders.

I’ve been studying this image of us all lined up in the back garden and I think it speaks volumes about the relationship and the individual characteristics of the ensemble.  My Nan was always my protector and so it’s no coincidence that here she has her hand on my elbow; she steered me through a great many upsets whilst I was growing up and I can still feel the intense shock I felt when she died aged 72 (I’d been 18 and already struggling with her demise).

My grandfather stands tall and slightly apart with the means by which he could reach out and touch, firmly hidden from sight (literary waffle for hands in pockets) – as he  did in life. I heard many terribly sad stories of Grumps from both my Nan and mum as I grew up, so know that he was a tyrannical, self-absorbed man who made both these females’ lives unbearable at times.   He might have been a cheerful enough grandfather but that didn’t need full-time dedication and it also gave the appearance of being a happy grandfather in public.  I’ve always had suspicions about Grumps having a reason for his hurtful demeanour and maybe I’ll touch on that at another time (or perhaps just put it into a story).

I think it’s quite telling that my own hands are pressed together as if in prayer, because I spent most of my childhood (and adulthood, I’ve come to realise) wishing and praying for something magical and ‘more than this’.  Mother’s face says it all – she’s looking into the eyes of the man she absolutely and unconditionally (to the detriment of her children) adored to her dying day.  Her smile was never broader than when she was with dad.

And then there’s my brother who suddenly appeared one day at the back door, my ‘new playmate’ which I simply hadn’t been prepared for, and here he’s being given the visual, physical elevation  which I struggled to cope with and understand for most of our upbringing. I feel as though I’ve post-mortem-ed this snapshot but really it does say it all.

A Black and White Summer

I’ve just changed the banner over the top of my Facebook page to this lovely, sunny picture which was taken probably circa.1965 (because my mother’s not in the photograph as she was almost certainly pregnant with the new ‘playmate’ she’d been casseroling for a good few months.  He’d be served up that October).

Taken on Weymouth beach, the line-up goes (l-r) My lovely Nan (Mum’s mother) with me perched on her lap like the cherubic little charmer I was at that age – catch me in another 6 months and it’s a whole other story I’m afraid and yes, the casseroled baby has a LOT to do with  the sharp turn of events – next  in line is my second Cousin Frances who’s got her tongue right inside her stick of candy floss (she’s also, I noticed, wearing what appears to be my own mother’s bathing costume – so perhaps she fitted into it a whole lot better than mum did at that precise moment in time…. casseroled babies… ggggrrrrr!) and next to her is her own mother, my Great Aunty Ivy -who I have such HUGE, huge fond memories of because her and my Nan (being sisters) were always such fun to be around.  And the last lady on the end on the right with her mouth open is my Maternal Grandmother, Gran Cooper, who lived in Dorset and with whom we (all?) stayed every summer.

I’d love to know what all the men were doing when this picture was being taken, because they weren’t around that’s for sure (otherwise mum’d got in on the act if she could’ve hidden her belly behind a deckchair) so I’m presuming they’re either in a pub along the promenade or else they’ve gone back to the cars to fetch the cumbersome hampers of pre-packed lunch back to the hungry gaggle of girls on the beach.  I remember sometimes if the weather was particularly offensive, we’d eat our lunch at a white and red tableclothed diner called ‘Dorothy’s Caff’ along the seafront, and I can still smell the chips, sugary tea, vinegar and and ketchup aroma that used to greet us as we pushed our way through the doors.  And the cigarette smoke, which was just normal at the time.

It clearly wasn’t very windy because we don’t have the wind-cheater up (yet?  Maybe that was part of the chattel the men had returned for)  and we all look very relaxed and cheerful so no sand was going anywhere horrid just yet.  I can’t profess to remember how the day went but going by the look on my cheeky little chipmunk face, I think I rather enjoyed being around all these lovely doting female relatives and I know how much I adored being in Dorset, so all in all a very happy occasion I’d say.

And… “smile for the camera!”

B’mouth

It’s the Fresher Publishing Prizewinners Ceremony this Thursday evening (19th) and so me and the Hubs are wending our way down to sunny Bournemouth tomorrow for 2 days of sun and fun and clapping and ‘networking’ (zoikes).  I’m not excited, though, mainly because I’m an anxious traveller and I’d rather not go anywhere unless I can really help it – but the Girl persuaded me this might be a good opportunity to meet kinfolk – writing kinfolk – and so we’re booked and we’re off. I don’t expect to win anything because I have an *egg-and-spoon mentality – but I’m quite certain I will come home with a raging headache and all my limbs tensed with … well, tension. I shall probably then sleep until the following Thursday.

The last time I went to Bournemouth was about 17 years ago.  The Girl (that’s her on my lap there) and I had accompanied her dad (my ex) who was attending a weekend conference in one of the hotels and so we’d gone along with him to meet up with my parents whilst he enjoyed his lectures.

Judging by the jumpers, the weather can’t have been that good, and I remember a distinct lack of holidaygoers – anywhere: on the beach and in the gardens (the shops were busy but then they could’ve been locals).   In most of the photos, the Girl is wearing her wellies on the sand so that must’ve been damp as well.  I can’t remember what we talked about; insignificant stuff concerning the weather and relatives perhaps – there was never anything interesting to talk about where mum  and dad were concerned.  Which is a shame in hindsight because less than a year later mum would be dead.  We had the opportunity to talk about so many things but before we appreciated it, we’d run out of time.

Although even if we had known  that mum was carrying around inside her head a tumour the size of half her brain (it only became apparent when it began to affect her motor functions) I rather doubt we’d have said anything particularly deep or meaningful to one another anyway – mine and mum’s relationship just wasn’t like that.

She was one of those 50s women who did things by the book and made sure everything was kept at arm’s’ length just in case it went wrong; so she couldn’t be held accountable for it I think – but sadly this included my brother and I.  We weren’t hugged (unless we attempted it in our older years and even then our hugs weren’t reciprocated) we weren’t ever told we were loved (unless it was followed by a ‘But you can’t…..’) and I don’t ever remember mum or dad sitting beside us and reading with us or talking to us.  The only time I ever felt close to one of them was if I was allowed to stand and watch – don’t touch! – them doing whatever it was they were occupied with… cooking (mum) or decorating (dad).

It was a peculiar household and one that I never thought was different to anyone else’s until I started visiting the houses of other friends where there were easy hugs and kisses and laughs and teases and a great deal of colourful messes – and then I found I missed my growing up in a way I couldn’t properly verbalise.  I think that was when I started writing.  In earnest.  About how I felt (because I couldn’t talk to my parents) about who I thought I was (jury’s still out on that one) and who I thought I might want to be (ditto).

The greatest gift my parents – especially my mother – gave me, was the realisation that there was no way on earth I’d bring my child/ren up the way they had.  I was going to kiss and laugh and hug and roll about in paint with them; I was going to run and skip and fall over and play with their friends; I was going to watch them cook, watch them make stuff and break stuff and not scold them; I was going to be there when they cried and hold their hand even if they didn’t want me to; **I was going to sit beside them when their boyfriend broke up with them and I was going to hold their hair back whilst they vomitted down the neighbour’s toilet. And one day I might even become their best friend and not simply somebody they felt obliged to go and visit because they felt it their duty to do so.

And I achieved all this.  So perhaps I’ve got a bit more determination in me than I (or others) ever gave me credit for.

* I nearly won an egg and spoon race once when I was about 6.  I was leading, and when my dad shouted ‘come on, you’re winning!’ I didn’t believe him and so I turned round to see if this was true, and tripped over, coming precisely nowhere. I know. 😦

** Not things I’d decided I’d do beforehand but things I’m so grateful that I got to share in actuality. 🙂

 

The Snow White Frieze #MemoryMonday

That look on my face I’d now describe as smug satisfaction; I’d managed to do something photo-worthy and felt chuffed to tiny  bits .

Aged (I’m guessing by the school tie, which was Primary) about 7 or 8, I’d spent a good week or so sitting at the dining table in the living room carefully copying this Snow White scene from my Walt Disney book onto a length of wallpaper remnant and felt justifiably proud of the finished result.

This masterpiece then went on to grace the back of the fishtank which sat in my Great Grandmother’s Nursing Home and where I was once again bestowed with all kinds of enthusiastic and grateful comments.  I loved me a bit of praise and encouragement when I was younger and I don’t think I ever grew out of it (who does?).

The orange tablecloth in the photograph must’ve been a relatively recent purchase as I remember this came out every time anybody did anything ‘crafty’ on it; Dad would sit for hours painstakingly building model Airfix aircraft on it, my brother, when he was older would sit and paste football cards into his Leeds United book, and whenever I sat to do homework on it, it also came out then, and become covered (and I mean completely) in scribbles and doodles of pop stars I loved, words from songs that meant something to me, names of friends I’d become best buddies with and then scribbled out when we’d argued, quotes from the books I was studying for O/A-level – you name it – it was scrawled on this orange tablecloth.  It would’ve made a wonderful piece of reminiscent history today and I wish somebody had thought to have kept it for  old times’ sake.  Trouble is, we never do, do we?  I suppose to mum and dad it was a messy old tablecloth that deserved nothing less than the dustbin after we’d finished with it.

If we’d had mobile phones back then, then I’d definitely have taken a few shots of parts of that orange tablecloth; it’s stitched into the fabric of my childhood.