4 years ago, I started scribbling my adventures on notebooks about the dark world of domestic abuse, and with a sigh of relief, the story Is mostly finished.
From the start of this project, I was uncertain if I would ever publish the story, despite a lot of encouragement from my daughters, a couple of pals, and various kind souls on social media. I kept going thanks to your encouraging claps. I hold you guys in my heart, it meant a lot.
I knew deep down selling my story wasn’t the driving force behind my teary scribbles and didn’t know why I felt so compelled to keep writing. A few hours editing and tidying would make it a complete book. Yet, something has been bothering me for some time, which I believe, has made writing the conclusion of the book, tricky.
I suspect Africa has something to do with this. My journey with Africa started a couple of years after, I jumped into the human swamplands.
Putting pen to paper, drew dark stories from the soupy wounds of my unconscious, like a snake charmer onto paper.
I was oblivious that my past haunted me, I drunk gallons of Ayauscaha and San Pedro in South America. I did therapy, I believed I was healed, cleansed and normal until those words revealed stories I had denied through deep shame.
The liberation gained from writing has led me to encourage others to write their stories. it’s a bittersweet process, that undoubtedly has a peculiar and enlightening impact upon your life. (I enjoy reflecting on the simplicity of this, often)
Writing and sharing my experiences has reclaimed personal power.
When I lived in the wastelands of society as a reprobate, it was standard to feel my skin being raked by other people’s disgust. I often wonder why nobody called the police; I knew, they knew life was cruel at my place. I saw the lights and shadows appear behind their curtains, as I crouched behind cars gaging my mouth for silence, they heard the screams from me and my young daughters, through our broken windows.
I lived on that street for 12 years with panda bear eyes glued to the ground. They heard the frequent calls from my madmen calling me back, like Iman calling prayers, “Get back now bitch, I’m gonna kill you”
I assumed at the time, the reason no one intervened was that they wanted me to die. My existence on their street affected the house prices and my prison/home was a dump, like me. It’s a sad reflection of society, but I don’t blame anyone, its life and its messy. I personified people deepest fears, absolute rejection. I always hope to reach out to the person who reminds me of who I once was. Unwanted and disregarded.
After finally the dumping my Psychotic boyfriend, I upgraded myself to a “strange-weirdo-eccentric’, other people’s adjectives not mine. I performed at blending in, by nodding a lot, saying positive things, watching EastEnders and drinking increasingly larger quantities of alcohol to sublimate my unacknowledged pain.
I learnt not to share my dreams.
I felt inadequate in the company those subscribed to the middle class. They appeared to be experts in all fields of life and shat sympathy at my innocent fantasy’s.
I learnt to keep my head down and keep my opinions to myself. My ears have always preferred the sound of other voices, to my own lips smacking. This made being in service to others a joy. Which is fortunate as my exit from the swamplands left me in an alien world. I didn’t understand.
I’m blessed that I stumbled the path of living in service to others, in a positive way. The story I lived became my mighty sword that cuts through the nonsense.
I use that sword to walk alongside human beings with wounded souls and teach them how to navigate difficulty. My life experiences turned into gifts offering me airtime in society.
I’ll never win a popularity contest, and that suits me perfectly, I’d wilt under the spotlight of scrutiny. The voyeurs and curtain twitchers of Social Media, I thank you for that lesson. The thought of having to perform and please the masses would be painful. I admire those who do.
My dark sense of humour and obligation to speak from the heart forces me to speak candidly when I see, what I believe is BS. Yet, when the shits hit the fan, people knock my door, (or text me) knowing I’ll have wide arms and an open heart, take your hand to scramble through the darker paths of humanity/
I know I’m different from my colleagues in the therapy world, I don’t fit in there either, I tried, and I just couldn’t manage it without carving up my humanity. I’m happy being a solo ranger in the swamplands, I know this territory like the back of my hand. I’m an unconventional maverick, who swears, tells terrible jokes and threatens violence, whilst showing you the way to your personal power. (The threats are playful and said with a cheeky grin)
I was thrilled to discover the story of, The Sin-Eaters in Wales who lived on the boundary lines of villages. The Sin eater is only called into the village when someone dies. The Sin-Eaters had a distinct purpose in the community, to cleanse the wounded souls of the dead for them to pass the pearly gates.
The sin eaters ate the sins of the deceased, and once they complete their task, they return to the edge of the village. I resonate with the Sin-Eaters, I don’t eat the bread of dead people’s belly, but I’m the women who cleans up messy human stuff and keeps myself to myself with the back up of a tiny circle of people I trust.
I spent my 30s trying to be a normal person, I transferred my addiction to taking class A drugs to drinking wine. I got a boyfriend who enunciated clearly and was a dab hand at navigating “normality”. He had a job that required a suit and didn’t have a criminal record. Vicariously I learnt how to please others and agree to the bland rules of conformity.
I started buying my knickers from M&S rather than nicking them from ASDA. i was trying to conform.
I’m writing this in the Gambia while crafting a plan to create a sanctuary from the fast-paced materialistic world. I first visited The Gambia in 1992, when I 17 years old. I cried for two days because I felt frightened and overwhelmed by its endless paradox’s. I returned when I was 21, to see the medicine man to heal my psychosis, (my parents’ idea not mine) and I’ve lost count of the times, I’ve returned since.
The pendulum of balance instigated a maddening itch in my 30s to travel to unusual places. Unknowingly I was searching for somewhere that felt like home. I ignored Africa as a potential home, due to cavernous brainwashing regarding the primitive rawness and hostility in this continent. An idea on the top shelves of the pantry preserved in a jam jar by the western world to justify raping and pillaging the people and land. The media continues to peddle this myth. You wankers.
I’m here with happy tears in my eyes, overwhelmed by unpretentious kindness. I want to spend more time here, and share what I’m experiencing with you.
I love helping other people feel good inside, as I really know how it feels not too.
Watch this space…
You are welcome to get in touch or make an appointment to visit my office on New Walk Leicestershire England or connect via Skype.
Big love, Alexia x