a beautiful revolution: blog:

Today is my birthday. I am 44. I never knew it was possible to be this happy. My About Me page says it all.

Maybe now is the time to look back. But where should I beginning? At the beginning? Yes, at the beginning. The moment I decided to change the world. My world.

Introduction

In 2004 I was depressed. Suicidal in fact. And so I went to see a therapist. My therapist suggested I write a list of the things I hated about myself and a list of the things I loved about myself. I knew these lists would not really do what she hoped they would do and so I decided to start a blog. A place to say all that I thought - all that I questioned about my life, about my world, and about the things we looked at during my therapy sessions. In the final months of 2004 I began writing here. This is my Journey. My beautiful revolution.

Session One

Both my parents were present at my birth. It was a wonderful day for them. For me, it was the most terrifying day of my life. I cried. I howled. Maybe that's where my manic depression began? According to my Mother, I was born a blue baby due to a lack of oxygen. Well of course there was a lack of oxygen - I was having a GODDAMN PANIC ATTACK. My first.

My proud parents took me home and for the next two weeks invited strange people, people I didn't know, didn't want to know, round to the house to have a look at me. I hated it. I cried. I howled, and proceeded to have my second GODDAMN PANIC ATTACK. One night, I was so consumed with fear my Grandfather had to give me the kiss of life. Before I knew it, I was back in hospital, lying in an incubator, convinced that my parents had come to the end of their tether and had decided to abandon me in a national health hospital. I cried. I howled. The Doctors said it was whooping cough and pneumonia and that I would have to stay in hospital for the next few months. The Doctors were wrong. I didn't have whooping cough - I was having a GODDAMN PANIC ATTACK. My third.

My therapist, a middle aged, slightly Bohemian woman draped in amber beads, whom I affectionately call The Blessed One, is convinced my fear of… well... pretty much everything really, started there, in that smelly incubator. 'Andre' she explains, 'We have a parent, an adult, and a child inside of us. Normally the adult is in control of our thoughts but in your case it's the child, the frightened child. We need to work on the child. We need the adult and the parent to hold his hand and let him know that it's okay'. I agree, and find myself closing my eyes and pretending to be a baby.

'This is so humiliating - I am very tempted to wee on her carpet,' I think to myself, but instead I do as I'm told. I have always done as my therapist has asked. I figured one attempted suicide, and 38 years of utter hell was enough for me. Time to leave my pride at the door and hand myself over to the experts. Anyway, eyes closed pretending to be a child...

The next memory I have is that of my bearded Granny, a god fearing hypocrite who spent my entire childhood crying over the starving 'black babies' she saw on the news, whilst bitching about my 'difficult to live with' Mother at every opportunity, and the local Catholic priest performing the lasts rights above my head. I didn't like it. I cried. I howled and had my fourth GODDAMN PANIC ATTACK. My bearded Granny and the Catholic priest were both convinced that Jesus had saved me - but they were wrong – and many years later, after spending yet another two hours kicking and screaming in bearded Granny's Sunday school I explained to her that Jesus had bugger all to do with it. But my bearded Granny was having none of it - she told me to wash my mouth out with soapy water and sent me straight to bed.

The Blessed One asks me about the relationship I have/I had with my bearded Granny.

'Well that's easy,' I explain. 'I think she has a hormone problem and she thinks I'm the Devil's child'

The Blessed One scribbles a few notes and asks me to continue.

At the grand old age of one I discovered how cruel, evil and twisted my fellow man could be. I was in hospital, again [apparently there was something wrong with my testicles - 'they weren't right']. Anyway, as I lay in my cot the night before my operation, the boy opposite, I never asked his name - I had other things on my mind at the time - but for the sake of this we'll call him Billy... no, on second thoughts this might be my only chance of revenge so lets call him … 'Ginger Midget'… climbed out of his cot and proceeded to poo under mine. I couldn't believe it. What a bastard I thought, as Ginger Midget wiped his arse on a kitchen towel. I was completely mortified. I couldn't believe a person could be so cruel. The next thing I can remember is Nurse Jones entering the room and shouting at me… at me, for fucks sake? I cried, tried to explain, she wouldn't listen and so I proceeded to have a GODDAMN PANIC ATTACK. My fifth.

I can clearly see the shame on my Father's face as Nurse Jones explained my evil deed to him. From that day fourth our relationship was over. I had dishonored the family name. His Mother was right. I was the Devil's child.

The Blessed One, scribbling notes like a woman possessed, asks me to pause.

Thank fuck for that, I think, opening my eyes, an adult once more.

'The hour is up,' she smiles.

It's amazing how, at the beginning, one hour stuck in a room with a stranger proclaiming to be a psychotherapist can seem like an eternity: nervous, uncomfortable, full of guilt and mind games, but just a few weeks later, when you finally begin to trust the person you once considered to be the enemy, how quickly the time flies. I book another appointment and do, what am I am to do for the next two years: thank her from the bottom of my heart and leave the room feeling slightly lighter than I did before.

to be continued

a beautiful revolution: blog

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A Beautiful Revolution: Session 1

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