I've just gone back to work after a wonderful ten days off. I did nothing. And it felt good to truly unwind. I spent days in my pyjamas, and worked through five seasons of "Grey's Anatomy."
I'd never seen the show before, though many of my friends talked of it. I'd always been a private practice gal, not wanting to stray from the comfort of Violet Turner, Sam Bennett and Cooper Freedman. But Private practice ended, and my love of Addison Montgomery took me to Greys.
I'm obsessed. I am infatuated with Derek Shepherd and Mark Sloan, I'm in a love/hate relationship with Meredith Grey, and I am going to be sending a very large therapy bill to Shonda rhimes for the emotional rollercoaster she currently has me on.
I worked a late shift tonight, and came home and cooked a quick dinner, before nestling myself on the sofa to watch Series 6, episode 10. Which happens to be a holiday episode.
Halfway through, Bailey confronts her father about her spending Christmas alone because of work. Lexie decorates the tree with Mark, Derek and Meredith are still super loved up, and when the scene changed to New Year's Eve and they all kissed each other after performing a miraculous surgery on a child. I thought, 'shit'.
This is the first Christmas I will spend alone, ever. I am working the entire holiday period, because O convinced me not to book it off as the store is shut on Christmas and we would see each other anyway. The first time I have ever cancelled my christmas holiday.
I wont have anyone to dance around with during my favourite holiday, gathering decorations whilst drinking mulled wine and listening to my favourite carols. I wont wake up on Christmas morning full of excitement, ready to give gifts. When Big Ben chimes and rings in new year, I won't have anyone to kiss.
I'm going to be alone. And the sheer thought is terrifyingly daunting. Christmas has always been my favourite time of year; and along with breaking my heart, O has broken my holiday spirit.
"Forget About The Boy" - Thoroughly Modern Millie Original Broadway Cast Recording.
~ Sutton Foster & Cast.
I always forget how much I love the theatre until I listen to a recording, or I'm sat inside the huge buildings situated in the West End or Broadway - or anywhere, for that matter. Nothing compares to the feeling I get when I'm in the uncomfortable fold-down seats, that don't seem to matter once the house lights go down and the orchestrations fill the room.
And I'm not just talking musical theatre, either. I love the Opera (La Boheme is my favourite). I love plays (Angels in America is my favourite). I love the ballet (Swan lake is my favourite classical ballet, Alice in wonderful is my favourite contemporary). But I guess you could say that my one true love is musical theatre.
I've always loved musicals, and I can't remember a time in my life when I wasn't watching them - be it on TV or on the stage. From 1930's MGM to 1960's movie musicals to current stage musicals. I was introduced to MGM in my teenage years - Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers are my one-time, permanent OTP. Top hat is dreamy, and, I still have a bit of a crush on Astaire and Rogers. Swoon!
I haven't really listened to any of my cast recordings in the longest time. In fact, most of them, I don't own anymore. I sold a lot of them as I always had duplicates as my ex, O, was also an avid theatre lover. So infact, I only have the ones I liked and she hated. And one of those, is the cast recording for 'Thoroughly Modern Millie'. I'm a total Sutton Foster nerd. Her voice gives me shivers, and honestly, provides me with an escape.
After work tonight, and a particularly long and arduous day, I put the CD into my car stereo and as soon as the overture began, I turned the volume right up and drove home. And then 'Forget about the boy' came on, and I found myself thinking of my ex as I drove. And you know what, singing the lyrics, and imagining singing them to O... really made me feel good!
So I'll leave you with them, as I go and ponder booking a theatre ticket for myself. Which is something I've not done in six years. My day has drastically improved, so thank you, grandad, for passing on your love of theatre to me.
I rang my grandma (My father's mother) today, as I do every Sunday. Whilst we were putting the world to rights with our hour-long conversations, I thanked her for sending me an easter card, with a handwritten letter, and a £10 note with instructions (which I did not follow, and I told her this) to buy myself some Easter Chocolate. I told her how much I appreciated the thought, and love receiving post, and I could almost hear her smile as she told me that she loved receiving things with thought. "It's simple things that brighten up your day when you're on your own," she begun.
She carried on to tell me about when she wakes up in the morning, and how she listens to a Radio Station called Merseyside, and at least one or two times during the week, they play the song I've posted above - "I love to boogie" by T-Rex. She said that when my Grandad was alive, he would listen to the radio with her and whenever this song started, he would leap out of his chair and start to shuffle his feet around the living room happily. "You silly old sod," she'd chuckle while watching him. She says she says the same things to her great grandchildren, (my cousin's kids) who are between the ages of 6 months and 7.
I pretty much consider my grandparents to be the foundation for my entire family. Well, they used to be, not so much anymore, which makes me sad. When I was a lot younger, our family would all congregate at my father's parents' house every Saturday afternoon, usually between 2pm-6pm. We'd sit together, my Grandma would lay out a buffet and we'd all pick at the food, watch a movie and have a chat and a laugh. I used to moan about going every weekend, because I wouldn't get to see my friends, but now I miss those days incredibly so. I'm so grateful my parents took me every week, because I wouldn't have the relationship I have (or had) with my grandparents.
My paternal grandfather died in 2008. I still cry whenever I think about this. We were incredibly close, and always had been, and I will never forgive myself for the fact I wasn't there when he passed. I moved halfway down the country in 2007, when I was nearly half a year into my (first ever) relationship, with O. I'd travel back to see my family maybe once a year, but always spoke to them on the phone three or four times a week. My grandfather fell down the stairs and broke his coccyx. Because of his age, he was taken into hospital, where he contracted C.Diff (a strain of MRSA), and although he was in good spirits, one afternoon he simply went to sleep and never woke up again. I'd spoken to him not long before he had died, and he had told me not to bother making the journey to see him, because I'd see him at Christmas.
I found out my grandfather had died via the internet. No phone call, no text, no skype... and it wasn't via my parents. I read a message that sounded ominous on my sisters' facebook page and rang my mum and dad, and there was no answer. Rang my sister, and her phone was off. When I rang both of my grandmothers and got no answer at either, I tried my uncle. His partner picked up and it was only then that I knew something was seriously wrong. My uncles partner told me that it was something I need to speak to my mum about, but I begged him to tell me. He must've heard the worry in my voice because the next words I heard were "Your grandad died today."
I still miss my grandfather as if he died yesterday, the hurt is still there, and I still feel so raw. I worry for my paternal grandmother, although she is as strong as an ox and as sharp as a tack, but I know she is alone. I also feel closer to her than ever since then, and I like to think we have a bond. She has been there for me in ways I never even dreamt she could, and I will always remain eternally grateful for both her and my grandfathers presence in my lives. I know he is watching over us, and he is with my aunt (his daughter).
My grandmother sounded so happy on the phone today, when she recalled that memory of my grandfather. "I can see him in my minds eye," she said, and this is the first time I've heard her speak about him in such a way that isn't simply so frank... "I have my sad moments when I see it, but then I laugh and smile, and I'm in a good mood for the rest of the day."
And she's right. I have my sad moments when I remember that he isn't with us physically anymore, but then I think back to all of those Saturday afternoons when we would sit and sing along to his favourite Disney movie, The Jungle Book, or when we would play with my Uncle's Dog, Max. Or how I'd sit and wear his flat cap and think he was really cool because he owned it and used to wear it with his shirt and tie - every day was a black pants, shirt and tie day for him. He was a true gentlemen, and the world was certainly a better place with him in it.
I slept in the dark for the first time last night. All my lights were off, appliances off, even the light in the fish tank was off. I didn't have to check under the bed, or close the bathroom door to, or double and triple check the bolts on my front door, either. It may not sound like much, but for me, this is a massive step forward. The only other time I've been able to sleep completely in the dark, was next to O, where I felt safe and loved.
It just goes to show a few things. How much comfort this flat is to me. This is my space, my living quarters, my home. There is one door to enter and leave through, and I'm on the first floor; so there is no-one waiting outside my windows to climb in and murder me in the night. I live in a studio flat, so everything (except the bathroom) is literally in one room. From where I am sat now, in the upper left corner of the flat, next to the window - I can see my entire home. A lot of people would find this too small, too cramped. Too... boxed in. But for me, this is perfect. I love being able to look around, and know that it is only me here, with my two Oranda goldfish - Harry and Henry, we are fine. I was very lucky to get this place, and sometimes I like to think luck was on my side that day I put the application in.
My Grandad always used to say that if someone looks over their shoulder constantly, they have a guilty conscience. For me, it wasn't as much as a guilty conscience, but a fear that I was being followed by ... him. I spent all of my dance lessons, paranoid that he would be waiting for me in the Church or the Church hall. Peering at me through the door, as I had caught him doing so many times before, making me aware of his presence.
One night, when I was five or six, I was in the Church preparing for the Christingle service with my dad and some of the elders in our Church community. While they were doing all of their adult bits, I was preparing the oranges - wrapping them in foil, piercing them for the candle, and attaching the cocktail sticks laden with jelly tots. I'd ran out of candles, and been sent into the choir rooms in the back of the church to get them, shooed away quickly because I was interfering and 'getting in the way'. I tried my best to get out of it, I hated going back there. That was where he had touched me the first time, and he said it was our 'special place'. I remember panicking and beginning to cry, and my dad led me back there with a huff, pulling me along - obviously angry I was disturbing him.
We entered the room and dad grabbed the candles, and he came in behind us. They talked for a while, as I semi-hid behind my dad's tall 6' 6" frame. He told my dad he had some things for me, and my dad told me I should stay and be polite. Be polite! I swear I remember my mouth going dry as I saw dad leave, and my stomach knotting over, and over, and over again as he approached the door, turning the lock behind my father.
The lights in the room went off, and the next thing I knew, I felt hands - big hands - running through my curls, down my neck.. my back. Pushing me down into a wooden chair that stuck into my back tightly. I remember heavy breaths, whispers that it would be okay, and this would teach me invaluable life skills. I remember hearing a zip which sounded like it was a sound effect through a microphone and wondering why no-one was coming to see where I was. I also remember being told that if I told anyone what was happening, that I'd not live to see another day.
That was just one of the many occasions that led to my fear of the dark, and you can probably guess what happened next. I don't feel ready to type the intricacies of what happened, but it wasn't nice, it wasn't pleasant, and I didn't stop it. I didn't know how to stop it, and it wouldn't stop for another eight or so years. So I guess this blog has a lot of life left in it yet. I'm finding blogging to be extremely cathartic, and I think it's helping? It has to help.. you can't go anywhere but up when you're at rock bottom, right?
Being picked up from school, taking tests, birthday parties, Christmases, family get togethers. All a standard part of a childhood, right? Well, what I know for sure, is that I was abused sexually, physically and mentally. The rest of my childhood, I have pieced together from photographs and video footage; and from conversations with family members. "Well, don't you remember winning your spelling competition?" All I can do is look at my grandma blankly, nod with a fake smile and apprehensively agree. "Oh, yeah... I must've forgot about that..." I mean, how are you going to tell your grandmother that the past three or four nights you were dropped off at Church, you weren't learning about Jesus. Or, at least, not the Jesus she knows about.
The Jesus I learnt about from the age of three, was going to punish me if I told people what was really happening when my mother dropped me off at five-thirty pm. The Jesus I knew about was going to send me to hell if I didn't comply with the tall, dark figure standing over me with a coy, smug smile etched upon his face. The Jesus I knew, didn't make sense to me. 'If Jesus loved his children so much, why would he want to hurt them?'
One time, I asked that question. He reached down to me and brushed my dark curls from my face, his palm flat against my cheek. "You're doing such a good thing, you know. You'll be safe with your saviour, you know. And I know this because I am God's messenger. You're such a pretty little girl." Even typing these words makes me shudder, and the latter part of that sentence has been ringing through my head verbally these past few days.
I had my usual therapy session on Tuesday evening, and we talked and it led into the topic of abuse (as it normally does, obviously). At one point, we started to talk about my ballet. I had danced since I was around 3, and my beginner lessons were in the Church hall. I danced there until I was ten or eleven; which is most of my career as a ballerina. (I had to stop dancing at fourteen, nearly fifteen, due to a torn meniscus and cartelidge.) She asked me if I thought I was a pretty little girl.
I think it's dangerous to deem children as pretty, it treads a pretty fine line, and frankly, the whole sentence makes my skin crawl. Delving into this a little deeper, she asked about my lessons, what would happen if my parents were late. Or that time when I slept over at his house because my dad decided to send me to Church camp with my abuser.
I often wonder if my father knows about what happened to me. What I went through. The reason I was an unhappy child, acting up and throwing fits left, right and center. It wasn't because I hated my parents, I don't. I do have a lot of anger; towards them, towards my abuser, towards myself. I wanted my parents to see what was happening, to walk into the Church early one night, if traffic was light or they just wanted to see me dance. But that never happened. For whatever reason, my parents never came to pick me up on time. They never came to watch me dance. They never walked in as he pinned me down on the table, and held me in place. Or as he back handed me so hard I went home with a black eye, and told them I fell off my bike into a wall. Or the time I broke my arm? That wasn't a bicycle accident either, mum... dad.
Just before I transitioned from primary into secondary school, the abuse stopped. I guess he didn't like kids who were growing up. Who were gaining their own voices and independence. At that time, my dad suddenly decided to pull me from that Church, and we all started going to a different one. I don't know why, and when I ask why we stopped attending, he kept his lips shut. Shortly after, the man who abused me moved away. I know exactly where he is now. I have his phone number stored in my phone - not in some weird, close way. But because I know his area code is nowhere near my own. As long as he is far enough away from me, then I am fine. I will be fine. I hope, at least, I will be fine.
I'm B. That isn't my full name, but that's all you need to know for now. Right now, this page provides a safeguard; the anonymity of the internet. I'm safe behind the screen of my laptop, and here I am able to finally be myself. I can type these letters on the keyboard, they appear magically on the screen and no-one needs to see the emotion that comes with it. Words come easier this way, words that may not be able to ordinarily escape the tip of my tongue because they are choked back by the presence of tears.
Anyway, I digress. I'm B. I'm newly single after my relationship of seven years broke down and my ex-fiancee ended things. Sure, we had our problems here and there, every couple does. It would be extremely unusual to meet a couple that doesn't argue. Our real problems, however, are centered around myself. Not through something I had done or caused, or so I am told... rather, something that happened to me when I was younger. Much younger.
My relationship with my ex, we'll call her O, was fantastic for the first five years. No problems, whatsoever. We hardly ever fought, we hardly ever disagreed. It was bliss. We were engaged, planning our wedding, and eventually we would go on to try for a baby. In October 2011, I began to have flashbacks. Vivid and very real flashbacks that would stop me from sleeping, eating certain foods, going to certain places and would even interrupt me doing menial tasks such as brushing my teeth. Panic attacks became a regular occurance, and my levels of anxiety shot through the roof. The doctors put me on a mood inhibitor and anti-depressant called Citalopram, and for months I felt numb. I didn't speak, stopped eating, and spent most of my days in tears. Friends told me I was acting like a zombie - there, but not, you know?
I began therapy in January 2012, with a lady based in the center of the city I live in. I had about 12 sessions with her, but every time I would talk to her, I felt as though I was bothering her. Either that, or she didn't believe me. Which was painful, and upsetting because I didn't know what to do with the information I had been 'given'. Though, I see it more as they were thrust upon me. My brain was 'drip feeding' me memories, the therapist said. When my brain felt I was ready to handle them, was when I would get another flashback, another memory, another nightmare. Gee, thanks, brain. A+ for you with that decision.
I am never ready to 'receive' these memories. As each new one comes, I recoil into myself, and have to re-evaluate everything once again. It makes this recovery process a lot harder, and it is only through the help of my newest therapist that I am even writing this blog. I have always written, part of my degree is in creative writing. I find it very cathartic (hence the username), and I'm hoping this place will become a real source of relief. And I hope that the content of this blog won't offend some of you, although, if it does, I have to tell you to stop reading it. This isn't going to be pretty, and it isn't going to be an easy read - or an easy write for that matter. That being said, the following image really says it all.
