D-Gen: Two: One Step Back, Two Trips Forward (Part Two)

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.

I suppose I should thank Heather for initialising my journey ‘to go back and file the past’.  I would like to say "Cheers" to her personally, but the last time I heard from her, she was just about to move to Delhi with her new 'life partner', Raj...

D-Gen: Two: One Step Back, Two Trips Forward (Part One)

Let me clear up one point.  I don't really want you to read about all my ins and outs - this is not some kind of attempt at an autobiography.  It is not so much a story of me, but a search for me.  Needless to say, it is certainly not a self-help book.  At the end, you can draw your own conclusions, but you may just find the questions I ask myself also seem to be the queries you make into your own life - there seems to be a definite trend.

I often wonder whether people living in other eras ever questioned why they were here.  Picture the scene: Victorian Papa, immalleable collar, colossal amount of facial hair, pipe in mouth, talking to his humble wife.   He puffs furiously on the mouthpiece, tweaking his perfectly waxed moustache.

"Gertrude, has your mind ever been besieged by the question of your existence?"

Well, unless bound by the study of Theosophy to an upper echelon of Victoria Society - not really, no.

At this point in time, I seem to be questioning my motives in life.  Am I so selfish and ungrounded because I wish to keep my money in the bank, spending it on acquiring things I desire?  Am I terribly naive in thinking careers have ups and downs - and when then downs occur, take some time out to inspire and refresh myself?  Am I so short-sighted because, no matter how hard I try, I cannot envisage myself in the "blissful" state of matrimony or parenthood within the next ten years?  Am I so self-centred to even think all of the above?  I am, of course, aware that many people have thought along these lines in years gone by, but have had to give up their ideals due to convention.  But, pray tell, what the hell is conventional now?  In a world where so many of us move from one short-term contract to the next, take long holidays 'in between' contracts, live for the time we can spend with friends, enjoying nights out and then nights in watching "Friends", I really am beginning to believe there is no real answer. Each to their own.

So, you see, it is not just who I am - it is who are we?  We have all had different upbringings, all over the world.  Poor, rich or just plain comfortable, we have managed to create a whole new era around ourselves, and no matter how hard they try, the slightly 'older' and 'younger' generations cannot quite get to grips with it all.  Anyway, enough of the 'we' thing, you can make up your own mind, Honey.  I am more concerned with how I became like this.

At the beginning of my life, it was pretty messy - as birth usually is.  Actually, Mother was only in labour for all of thirty minutes, by which time I had obviously had enough of all the pushing and squeezing, and most ungraciously entered the world.

My first prominent memory - apart from the vague recognition of my parents - was of peacocks in our back garden, viewed through a brown haze.  Now, as first memories go, it is quite a weird one.  According to most books on symbolism and dream meanings, peacocks mean pride, vanity and a great amount of confidence.  What a great start, eh?  What more could a nine-month old kid want?  But the brown sludgy haze?  Apparently it was the entire contents of a bowl of chocolate pudding that I had deemed good enough to wear.  I still do not know the meaning of wearing chocolate, but at least I had started the way I had meant to go on: aware, accident prone and with a sweet tooth.

Accidents did happen, and they happened a lot when I was around.  Even before I ventured into my schooldays I had managed to christen my first tooth with my lower lip; ‘speed toddle' straight through a plate glass window and out the other side without a scratch; be bitten on the nose by a dog – and then bite it back in return as thanks; and most superbly, crash-land my trusty space-hopper into a friend's pond, stunning their entire collection of prize fish to death.  What a kid.

Once I had started school, I became more aware of the concept of hurt and pain.  Teachers making you stand on a chair in front of the class because you cannot remember the three times table, hurts.  A ruler slammed across your knuckle was a pain.  I learnt, in time, to bury the hurt deep inside, and try my best to hide any physical pain.  But why, at such a young age did I decide to keep it all inside?  It certainly was not anything to do with my parents not accepting my cries or pleas for help, because in a way, I was very different at home.  It was because of stereotypes.  Even at the tender age of five, I was rebelling against 'convention' and 'expectation' - a rebellious streak I can only wonder if I will ever control.

In my younger years, I was what would have been referred to by our Victorian Papa as, a sickly child.  This, I have come to realise, was mainly due to the lack of insight of our family doctor.  During one particular academic year, I had attended school on only fifty-nine occasions, having been off school with throat infections for nearly a whole year.  Normally, common sense would prevail, and one would think: "There must be something wrong with this kid's throat".

Fifteen years later, whilst suffering (and I mean, suffering) from glandular fever and acute tonsillitis, I realised the pain was very familiar.  Then it became apparent: I had managed through six years of ‘on and off' tonsillitis at school, just because our doctor thought removing tonsils was a "fad". A fad?  Right on, Doc!  What a guy.  I would just like to congratulate you on your loose grip on reality that left me feeling like a leper for many years! 

I have always been a thinker, right from day one - you know, one of those deep, intense, 'why' children?  Inquisitive, imaginative and outgoing are all vital qualifications for an only child  and as that singular, I had my own bedroom, my own toys, my own friends (real and imaginary), even my own ghosts, I had all the parental attention I could ever want, and bloody hell, it could get boring!  Is there no surprise in the fact I spent all my time - little miss junior gregarious - surrounded by hoards of pals?  Let's face it, I had all the best toys - not because I was particularly spoilt but because I had no older or younger kin to wreck them.  Any destruction was left to me and me only, and any friend who broke my possessions was sent to Limboland where the Wombles dared not go.  Let's face it, there were two things you did not do:  steal and break others' toys.