Twisted|Cornflake

Thought I’d stick my head up and take a look round….

No point in being here any more, too much like hard work…

And as a break from the intense stuff floating around inside my head, I thought I’d have a play with some themes (for a change, lol). Bit of fun with this one, but I kinda like it ~ doubt if it will stay long though…

First real post since opening the floodgates and a lot has happened. A lot of spitefulness and of course, some sympathy. As I said, I wasn’t looking for forgiveness ~ I wouldn’t expect to be forgiven for some of the things I have done. Nor was I looking for sympathy, that wasn’t the point.

It seems to be the general opinion that I’m using my past as an excuse, something to hide behind. Nothing is farther from the truth. At no time have I ever implied that my past somehow excuses my behaviour because there are no excuses. Sure, if I could turn back the clock to my childhood and live the last 30 years again, I would be a different person now, but I make the rational decisions in my life, decisions and actions that directly affect those around me and as such I am to be held responsible for the consequences of those decisions and actions. 

Just as I can’t live the last 30 years again, I am unable to turn back the clock and undo the things I have done in my life that I’m less than proud of. All I can do, as can any of us, is apologise to the people who have been hurt,  try to make ammends, learn from the mistakes, and try to be a better person. I am as human as the next man, and as such not perfect.

I chose to make my story public because it was something  needed to do, for myself, to allow me to move on, not because I felt I needed to publish an excuse for the last 30 years of my life and all that I have done.

Are now working again! A rogue plugin causing havoc and I had no idea. Shame I can’t sort my head out as simply ~ losing the battle here……..

Part one here..

 Well that certainly opened the floodgates! Emotion like I’ve never felt before, pouring out of me in waves, so much so it’s left me drained, empty, numb. So deeply buried for 30 odd years, I thought I had a lid on it but very obviously I didn’t. Having it out in the open has allowed me to analyse it, disect it, and see how it’s effects have shaped who I am. A lot has become clearer to me now.

Again, there are no excuses, and I’m not trying to make any. I’m not looking for sympathy, not looking for forgiveness.

There is a lot more to come and in order to move forward I need to get the rest down. I’m not quite ready to write it down just yet ~ still reeling from the effects of the last bit, but I will, I have to, because I feel the job is only half done and I can’t quite make the break from that dark, sick and twisted person I am to the man I want to be. It’s almost like someone switched the lights off when I was 12 and I’ve been stumbling around in darkness for 30 years ~ I firmly believe everything happens for a reason, and out of all this, someone left me a tiny candle and a match. Not quite found the courage to light it yet, because I hope when I do it will allow me to find the light switch again ~ and that’s bloody scary, believe me ….

I’m not writing this for anyone in particular to read, or for some sympathy vote, or to apportion blame. I’m writing it purely and simply becaus I need to. Have tried on many previous occasions and failed ~ maybe an abridged version will allow me to get more, if not all of it out this time. Every single word here is to the best of my recall, the truth, no exaggeration for effect ~ to do that would defeat the object for me…

 My earlies recollection of my childhood was about the time my parents split, probably because this is the time events started to become significant. Don’t know how old I was and there was no warning, all I knew is suddenly my rock solid world in 60’s surrey suburbia was brutally swapped for a remote farmhouse in Wales with no heating, no hot running water, no bath or shower and a scary, burly man had taken the place of my dad. When I say remote, I mean remote ~ miles from anywhere and anyone, no friends anymore, just my mum and a scary, burly man. When I say no bath, I mean that bath time was a weekly event in a large tin tub in front of the open fire in the lounge ~ a sort of communal bathing event. We did have electricity, when it worked, but hot water was boiling pans, heating was chopping logs and kindling (thanks to the scary, burly man) and a small gas heater in the kitchen. Oh, and no TV. School was a 40 minute walk through numerous fields of waist-high grass (wet in summer, change of trousers, pants and socks required!), and that was to get to the pick-up point where I was collected by a local mum for the rest of the journey to school. Pretty scary time really…

It was about this time I became aware that the scarly man had a lot of guitar playing friends with long hair who smoked strange smelling cigarettes and seemed to stay at the farmhouse for long  periods, and also become aware of Pink Floyd, Frank Zappa, Jimi Hendrix and the fact that the police were not friendly bobbies that gave you directions when you were lost. They seemed to be a different race that should be avoided at all costs and extreme measures were taken to alert us of any presence near the farmhouse. I didn’t understand why they should want to visit us anyway, but every now and then a lot of them would suddenly appear, often at odd times and always accompanied by lots of confusion, frenzied activity and shouting!

I spent an awful lot of time in my room reading, every Narnia book, the hobbit, to name a few, or out exploring, but always on my own, with my own company, alone. School was a endless succession of bullying events, I was already becoming aware I seemed to be ‘different’ to the other kids in some way.

Anyway, this is starting to ramble on, so…

 Must have been there a few years cos my step~brother Kaz came along while we were there. Soon after I was informed we were leaving, going on a trip, a long one. And boy, was it a long one… Hour after hour, day after day trapped in the back of a Volkswagen camper, white, called Bessy (as in bus). Right across europe, Asia, ending up in Pakistan! Oh sure, an exciting adventure for a 10/11 year old, but an incredibly lonely one for this 10/11 year old, alone with my thoughts, by myself. Endless driving, find a place to stop, sleep, and more endless driving ~ a routine that seemed to last forever.

I Pakistan, things went from bad to worse. I remember ‘getting a job’ selling cigarettes from a strange wooden hut affair that seemed to fold up, for a few rupees a week ~ never saw any of those rupees though, were always needed for other things. I knew by this time I was different, a white boy wearing traditional Pakistani clothing and learning to communicate with these people I was in daily contact with. Strangely, it seemed to fit though. I got bitten on the way home from ‘work’ one day, by an insane dog that I’d passed many a day before. This day it just leapt out at me, frothing at the mouth and sank it’s teeth into my leg. Didn’t understand the significance of the frothing mouth til days after ~ rabies! The treatment? copper coins on the wound to draw out the poison, held in place with ‘bandages’!

Do you know why traditional Pakistani people only eat with their right hand? Well if you don’t, I’ll enlighten you. It’s because toilet roll didn’t exist in the slum areas of this country, in fact toilets didn’t exist ~ two bricks either side of a hole in the ground and a bucket of water, and yes you guessed it, the water and the left hand are used instead of paper. Don’t forget this was a few years ago now, I’m sure things have moved on now. Bit of a culture shock for a hid from surrey though, oh yes, I was different, and very, very alone. Little did I know I was going to get even more alone…

Rita and Ken (mum and scarly burly man), decided for whatever reason to take some time out, together, without me and Kaz. Very alone. Now suddenly I not only had my own growing to do, but take care of him too, alone, thousands of miles from my dad, whom I missed terribly. Suddenly mum was gone too. Sure they’d made some basic provision, we had somewhere to stay, a family we’d got to know, a roof and food, basic survival stuff. Please bear in mind this isn’t a typically portrayed Pakistani family, this is basic, mud hut and slum stuff, the sort you see on those clips during Comic Relief, the ones designed to get you to phone and pledge, the ones with malnourished kids with flies crawling around their eyes.

About this time I became aware of a young chap in this family seeming to take Kaz and I under his wing, looking out for us, buying us things, making sure we had food etc, even suggested we could stay in his area of the ‘dwelling’ (male and female hindi people are strictly segregated, mingling only allowed after marriage), was ‘more room and more comfortable’. His name was Guru, of all the people I met on this journey, his is the only one I remember. Guru had his own reasons for wanting us there, as I quickly learned. I woke in the middle of the night one night to find him lying next to me, using my hand to stroke his genitals. I don’t wanna turn this into a porn story, but I need to write it down ~ some may say this isn’t the place, but I need it out in the open. I remember the first time vividly, like it was yesterday, I asked what he was doing, he said it was ok, but not to tell anyone because I would get in trouble ~ then there would be nobody to take care of us. I was scared, I did what he wanted, repeatedly, nightly. I knew it was wrong, but hey ~ I already knew I was different from other kids. I stopped him from doing it to Kaz (because he had been). I just closed my eyes and wondered what I’d done to deserve this, tried to think of nice things, my mum, dad, my guitar, anything. Sometimes I fell asleep and he would get annoyed with me. I remember asking him why he had to pee on me every time he made me play with him, I only realised in later life that of course it wasn’t pee.

I was about 12 years old, very lost, very alone and very very scared…

Ken did eventually come back, without my mum, apparently she’d gone off with a waiter they’d met while they were away, but it was at least an end to the nightmare.

I can’t write anymore tonight, things got a little better after Ken came back, but ther is a lot more. Up until now there are only 3 or 4 people that know any of the more grizzly details of this story, Ken doesn’t know, my mum certainly doesn’t know, even my dad and Pat (his wife, whom incidentally I now consider to be my mum in every sense), don’t know. I have struggled with it alone, kept it inside for best part of 30 years, NEVER had the opportunity to discuss it, explore it, free myself of it ~ I hope writing it down will be the start. I needed to get to this point before I paused…

What hope is there for a young lad that’s abandonded (along with his younger step~brother) by his mother in the middle of Pakistan at the tender age of twelve? What does the future hold for a fresh faced, frightened child who is subsequently sexually abused by a male member of the family that took him in? What image of the world will that child hold in his head in later years, and what image will he hold of himself after struggling internally, in silence, with those events for so many years? How will this affect him long term?

Will he try to block it out of his later life, or will he look in the mirror and hate himself every second of every day? Will he cringe every time someone calls his name? Will he believe he is a good man or will he constantly wonder why anyone gives him the time of day? Will he think himself a worthy father to his children? Will that man ever be able to give himself completely to anyone?

What will he feel when a woman holds him in her arms? Will he be able to believe she loves him, or will he think she’s only there because she feels sorry for him? Will he ever feel any relationship he has is based on reality, when his reality is surely based upon a  pure hatred of himself? When his angel cries her tears for him, will her tears burn his heart or just reinforce his belief that he’s not worthy of her love and that she will eventually find someone who is and leave him anyway?

Will he ever believe that anybody could truly love him?

 I have today ‘invested’ in some new music, my one passion in life, the one thing that never critisises me, never demands anything from me, never looks at me disapprovingly, never scolds or chastises me. Music is the one thing that is always my friend, always there when I need it, my support, my crutch, my shoulder ~ it knows when I’m happy, knows when I’m sad and always says the right thing in my hours of need. Sure, it can make me cry, and frequently does, but it can also make the dark clouds seem less stormy, ease the oppression of my troubled mind. It can transport me back to more memorable times or allow me to wallow in the sadness of times I should be forgetting. The one overriding and very magical thing it always does though, is speak to me. It speaks to me in a way that only a kindred spirit, a soulmate, a lover can…