Twitching and tourretes

I’m a twitcher, no not Tourette’s, although munching on a bar of soap might clean my mouth and cut down the expletives.  I swear because it reminds me of my mum. She died.  Mum would say ‘the fucker “what a twat” I say these phrases often as a prayer to you, mum.

Twitcher, as in bird watcher Is what I meant.  My love for birds is rooted in my childhood with my grandparents, who were poultry farmers and butchers.   I’m a vegetarian now, eating lamb, five days a week until I was the 7yrs old, put me off for life. The smell of lamb revolts me, yet I felt nothing chomping into chicken for 40 years believing chickens to be worthless, my dissonance continues to horrify me.

I have two rescue battery chickens, Tina and Grandma and I’m glad I don’t eat chickens anymore because I’ve fallen for these girls, I couldn’t imagine eating them.  We change and forget to notice, most of the time.

The majority of the things I write about are things I wouldn’t dream of doing now, I surprised myself, I’m writing about things I’ve changed, and things I’ve accepted and things I’ve survived.

Life can be a cruel and relentless teacher, and I was a terrible student, I needed a hard knock to crack my limited map of reality. I believed I was stupid; I now view my years being knee deep in domestic abuse through the lens of ‘kinder eyes’.  I was naïve, and the education system let me down as did society who blatantly ignored my screams and bruises.  I was undoubtedly a soft soul who got lost in a fierce tidal wave that dragged me to the darker side of life.

Photo; Tina, another warrior girl who survived a dark time

Reminiscent times with my grandparents bring blissful memories of their home, despite the dead animals hanging around. The smell of burnt Chicken feathers still haunts me, it’s the foulest stench ever. Pun unintended but kept for fun.

So, watching the birds from my window is where I’m writing my book.  The stand-up bird feeder I erected, brings all the birds to my yard, it’s like an out of town shopping mall. I could write a full chapter on the dramas encountered at the bird table.

Being 46 years of age confuses me, I’m lost in time and writing a confessional memoir has confused me further. The 1990s which I’m writing about was a decade of amnesia for me, and no I’m not referring to the nightclub.  I’ve spent three years excavating memories and continue to be astounded at the profanities that took place.

The memories hid to protect me and patiently waited for their time on the stage and to finally take a proud bow. I appreciate the memories impeccable timing, with both of my daughters’ feet firmly rooted on the earth, with their beautiful wings outstretched, observing them flying independently of me is a tribute to our three-musketeer mindset.  when I saw my girls soaring in the clouds, I granted myself permission to heal and tidy stuff up. well done my little beauties, I love you.

I don’t need to hide we all have dark stories, some of my stories are brutal but an honest expression of humanity, hiding from the darker sides of humanity doesn’t make it go away.  I firmly believe we should feel comfortable in sharing our stories in the absence of fear and shaming.

The illusionary nature of time messes with my head, it moves around but also stops, other times it’s fast and sometimes slow. We are obsessed with time, setting goals and setting dates. We all want more time yet fill our lives with more appointments and things to do, maybe to avoid being ourselves. I think humans are mostly absurd which I really love.  I lived in utter madness for over ten years and seem to have survived relativity unscathed, and in those ten years, I had one wish, and that was to be normal. I’m glad I’m not, but no one is.

Why I took this detour in life?  maybe it was meant to happen, so I could tell stories about transforming past pains and shames into glorious fertile ground for new beginnings and fruitful wisdom on my return.

My book will take you on a stroll through my life in the 1990s, there will be few if any culture references as I wasn’t there, which I understand sounds contradictory.

It’s a bizarre story but not unusual. I nosedived into pain and came back to make peace with myself and the lead characters, who played their roles perfectly.   Twenty years have passed and I’m writing this is a tribute to be a warrior and coming back with a big silly grin and odd sense of humour.

While writing my book, I’ve faced some of the bog-standard tragedies we all face in life, such as the trials and tribulations of motherhood, broken marriages, losing my uncle and a few later my beautiful Mother, just after my brother lost his left leg all within 2 years. These significant events forced me to let go and feel emotions without wanting to numb them, I allowed myself to engage in a normal process of healing and learnt so much, it isn’t as hard as you imagine, don’t worry I’ll share all with you.

So, a bizarre twist in my teenage life took me in a direction nobody would dream. And I survived and lived to tell the tale with insights that I hope encourage you to change your mindset towards your intended path if required.

Love feels like a great misfortune, a monstrous parasite, a permanent state of emergency that ruins all small pleasures.

 Slavoj Žižek

Can you see how past events have become useful gifts in your life now?

 

With Love Alexia x

I’m sharing extracts from a book I’m writing,  making feedback really welcomed.