Looking back, I was pretty cute as a kid, but also extremely devious. At one point, wishing to be the fastest athlete in the world, I would, every two weeks or so, try and hit a raw nerve with my father. I would take off in the direction of the garden and he would then chase after me. This, on my part, was to gauge my running skills and see if I had gained any more speed since the fortnight before. Warped? Sick? No - just perfect common sense to an eight year old.
But how does this all relate to my dilemma? We all know certain character traits appear during our younger years, but how can a whole generation of people be so similar? Take our dearest Heather, for example - she went back into her murky kiddie-past to overcome her present problem. Well, I never did have a problem with Aran wool, but I guessed, at one point, it would not hurt to look back in order to go forward. So I did.
A trait from my younger era was always being the centre of attention, and therefore, a complete chameleon. Only child = everyone's friend. I was neat, tidy and precious with the 'nice' girls; boisterous, noisy and bitchy with the 'bad' girls; tough, athletic and fast with the boys on the rugby and football fields; strong, loud and truthful when standing up for the weak, and Godzilla’s little sister if someone pissed me off. Hundreds of character traits packed into one body, baffling senior figures all the way. Nobody could ever pour me into one mould. It was that rebellious streak, screaming out for individuality, even then. The streak that called everyone a liar.
"Such a quiet, sensible child...” , as I shrieked with crazed laughter.
"An uncontrollable chatterbox...", as I leafed through Shakespeare.
"You'll be married with two kids by the time you're twenty-five...". Dream on.
On one particular day, during one very grey month that seems not all that long ago, I found myself in a really restless mood accompanied with drumming fingers - the kind of state requiring a complete overhaul of spirit, soul and body. Without intentionally urging myself towards retail therapy, I took it upon myself to visit my local shopping mall. Was it a little, black dress calling me? No. Was it yet another pair of 'must have' shoes? No. A new hairstyle? No. Another little something, to clutter up more shelves? No. Then I saw the sign - "Bookshop" - and knew it was the right one. I bought and read an extremely thought and action-provoking book, 'The Celestine Prophecy'. I don't know how I managed to travel back home, or indeed anything of two telephone conversations I apparently had later on in the day. Let's just say, that book did not leave my hands until the last page was turned. I read it Insight by Insight and thought, "I could really sort out my shit-for-brains head with this book!"
I became the full 'O'; I sorted out the power and energy struggles within my life - those of which were depleting me of my full zing; I looked at the reasons why I had 'chosen' the parents I had ended up with; I puzzled over the valuable lessons I had to learn from them; I felt like a new person for months on end. Then, months later, suddenly I realized, I wasn't that perfect after all. I had sorted out my old past problems but was falling back into those energy/power struggles again. What was a girl to do?
Then, "The Tenth Insight", came into print - but in hardback. Now, as a matter of principle, I do not buy hardback books. Yes, they last longer, and you can still decipher the title on the spine after reading them twenty times, but, if like me, you buy ten to fifteen books in one go, trailing upwards of thirty kilos of words around, is not really all that appealing. Especially when the a carrier bag is, within minutes, destined to join the great recycling unit in the sky. So, my wait began. I waited and waited for the paperback edition to reach the shops. Every few weeks or so I would check in with the friendly local bookstore to see if they has a release date and then eventually it was unleashed upon the literary world. And I had forgotten all about it.
One day in Brighton, beckoned by refuge from the pouring rain, I ended up browsing aimlessly through the shelves of a dusty little booksellers and came upon my long awaited, nearly forgotten, friend in paper back. Heart momentarily missing a beat, I seized my chance, frantically waved my debit card at a sales assistant, scribbled something that resembled my signature and dashed to a nearby coffee bar. Double espresso in hand, I started to read. Imagine my complete relief and happiness to discover the main character from the first book had first of all, made it into the next book, and secondly had found sticking to it all really hard to live with. I was elated: I had been welcomed back into the human race.
Sorting out the 'early days' did do me a huge amount of good. I realised I had never been cut out for a career in athletics, and discontinued my inner fastest-person-in-the-world drive before I overshot the finishing line when I hadn't even started. I also learnt I could have a pretty good time without depending on other people to be around me.
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