finding the words

This one is hard. I usually have an idea what I want to say and just sit and write. No editing, it’s a blog after all not a novel or book - it’s just how I’ve always written. From my soul, leaving things out that feel too personal but always trying to push toward the boundary of me. I can’t say these things out loud so writing them down has always been my self-expression. When I was 14 years old I wrote an essay for my English teacher Mrs King, it was called ‘Alone’. It told my truth. She marked it an A and when handing it back had said how powerful and well written it was, but followed with a quizzical ‘none of it is true though?’. The lesson in not sharing cemented in stone.

My sister once told me she read my diaries without my knowing. I kept them all through my teen years, pouring out my anguish, but again not all my truth. I don’t really know why she told me so late in my life. It would have been better to tell me back then, even without telling me. Letting me know I was seen, I was heard, someone knew what I was going through. Now it felt too little, far too late - it wasn’t even an apology. Perhaps just assuaging her of her guilt, I didn’t ask. I just moved swiftly on as going back there, with her now was too much.

People don’t realise this blog is very much hidden from my immediate family - I don’t want to discuss it’s contents or me, with them. It’s safer and easier that way. If you are reading this and are related to me, well you’ve either found it by accident or you’re one of the next generation who I trust to process this compassionately and without question or comment. Thank you for respecting this boundary.

Last night I attended a book launch - The Flying Child by Sophie Olson and Patricia Walsh. I follow the Flying Child Instagram account and had seen it promoted and impulsively I booked a space. Little thinking about what may be said at the event or how it would make me feel. Having had a testing few weeks perhaps that was naïve or foolish, or brave - who knows? But I went along on my own. Bought a copy of the book and sat down in what felt like a safe seat, back against the wall, able to see the room but stupidly trapped at the end of the row with no escape.

Speakers came and went, stories started to be told and sections of the book read. Then a video of a poem…..what next I don’t clearly remember, my tears, my body numb, shaking, eyes shut, open, shut, hands tingling, numb, foot tapping, more tears, people leaving - it was over and I needed to move, I needed to get up and get out. But I couldn’t. I was stuck, barely aware of what was around me, but knowing I was struggling to breathe. And then she appeared a young woman who asked if I was okay - I managed a shake of the head and she asked if it was okay to sit, not waiting for an answer she positioned herself a safe distance from me in the row behind. My eyes now tight shut, I couldn’t look at her. She would see. She started asking questions, she sounded so far away but kind.

‘where was I in relation to my body’ - I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know. I didn’t feel anything except the need to escape and run as fast as I could but I couldn’t move.

‘what was my favourite colour’ - no, still no answer - then I remember laughing I think, black ‘if that’s a colour’

‘an easier question, favourite animal’ - instinctively ‘Cat!’ - and I began to lift my head, see her, she had a cat tattoo on her arm. I told her their names George and Lucas but she didn’t get the reference so I told her, Star Wars. Ah she was a child of the prequels, 25 years old this year I said. Re-entering the space around me, no one here but us. She told me we were fine to stay. I apologised, guilty I had stopped her from joining the reception. But apparently this was why she was here, a therapist for just this kind of situation.

I explained I had never been to anything like this before, with other people sharing - she told me I should be proud for coming - that brought me straight back as that’s what my therapists say all the time about pride - I laughed and said ‘ you now sound like my therapist’ - she laughed and said ‘would they be proud you’re here…?’ No reply, but actually I knew they would. They hold me safely, warmly and give me validation I don’t think I deserve and can’t accept. But they still offer it.

And then she asked what I needed, water, space - I said I think I want to leave but I didn’t know how to with all the people around. So she offered to find us a quieter way out and come with me. I sat for a little longer, if I’m honest I’ve still no idea how long we sat there and when I stopped hearing the book launch at all. But I stood, my legs wobbly and my heart pounding, mouth dry. She took me out a side door, we did have to cross the room of people but she led the way and took me to the exit door. She told me to watch Star Wars on the way home, which I knew wouldn’t happen. I messaged my wife and my therapist Angel to say what I think had happened. Worried I may not make the train station, worried this would trigger a tsunami and I would disappear into the London night forever.

I was so grateful, thanked her kindly. Stupidly never even knew her name. And I went home. Messaging as I walked. It seemed to take twice as long to walk back to the station as it had to walk there, my legs incapable of moving. Stuck in the past. On the train I took a photo of the book, thinking I would share a post to Instagram. Then doubting myself until I was home. The post went just before I stumbled to bed, exhausted. Feeling like I’d been in the fight of my life and lived a thousand years in one day (as the post says).

Today I’m scared I’ve said too much. But here I am saying more. I’ve been told it’s okay, I am allowed to speak. My voice is allowed to be heard. This is and always has been my story. My experience. My lived life. My truth. Facts are facts. But the truth can be murky. There are alternatives, different versions, memories without recall. Silence. Silenced.

What many don’t realise is I spend hours telling myself all I think is true, isn’t. That I’m a liar, a fantasist, attention seeking - many words I was told over and over growing up. Selfish. To me this is a manifestation of that. Writing these words you will all just think the same. But I’m driven to write them. I had a bit of a telling off from Angel yesterday morning, long before the trip to London. A different world almost. She reminded me I was gaslighting my child self. Treating her as she always had, she wanted to scream and cry and shout and I was telling her no, be silent, be still, disappear as an inconvenient truth. At that moment I had believed the floodgates opened, but it actually happened at some point between 6 and 9pm last night. She was seen, heard, she saw and heard and she exploded in pain and anguish and I’m trying to validate that by my Instagram post and these words.

I am trying to blossom in to the person I am meant to be.