Tweens

As I mentioned, I was a very anxious child. I was scared of the dark, I was scared of the ankle-grabber under the bed (I would make a running leap into bed each night to avoid his grasp), I was scared of the woman in the wardrobe and of piles of clothes around my room. I was scared of the things in the toilet that would be angry if I flushed at night, and I was terrified of the dark at the bottom of the stairs, that crept up on me silently if I walked slowly, and chased me if I ran.


I grew into an awkward pre-teen with social problems. I was taller than anyone my age, and shrunk against walls and into corners. I wet the bed for years, and I wet myself at school until I was quite old. Besides this I was ahead of my class academically, certainly in reading and writing and general comprehension, although I had a problem with maths. I was 'the creative one'. I was a 'boffin'. In my first junior school I had a best friend, we were both top of the class and would compete each week in how complex a word we could learn to spell. Not long before I moved to a primary school, she was allowed to skip a year, and moved up, where she would be alongside the bigger girls.
I wondered why I had not been allowed to skip a year; we were comparable academically. I asked my mum such, and she said it was because of my social skills. 'Oh, that I find it hard to make friends?', I asked, and she snapped angrily, 'no, because of your wetting yourself'.

At playtimes I would trail the edge of the playground, and if I was sadly without a book (Christopher Pike or Stephen King were my favourites) - I'd pick the tiny red berries from the hedge, and place them onto the long thorns that grew there, watching the red juice spill out. A few of the teachers were quite protective of me I believe, and I generally worked hard, receiving praise and good grades gave me a sense of worth and identity. I remember I was also often bored though, it was hard to focus, and I would read my book under the wooden hinge-topped desk (mine was full to the brim of screwed up paper, broken pens, pencil shavings, long-lost workbooks, splurting ink cartridges).

I know that my personal hygiene was something my mum saw as a problem, or my ability to look after myself and brush my hair. Shame permeated these years of transition - what I now identify as shame - an intolerable state of being that is inescapable and excruciating. My mum would type lists and tape them to the bathroom door, a step-by-step itemised list of where and how to wash. These lists made me incredibly angry, I hated being micro-managed in this way,  and some of the list made me cringe with horror and embarrassment. This was my mother's way of trying to help and guide me. I was always a little eccentric in the clothes I chose, and it took me a while to start noticing and caring about looking good - sadly when I was ravaged by acne and going through a really quite hideous phase around ages 11-13. There are more anecdotes on that, but I'll leave it be for now.

My mum moved out of the house, leaving it for the twins, waiving her custody of them as she felt that it was best for them, and maybe she was right. I feel that this decision came from a place of shame and worthlessness, though; I think that her husband/soon to be ex-husband had made her believe that she was not worthy of seeing the twins. It seems surreal now to think that they were ever married.

I was very sad that I would not be able to see my little brother and sister anymore. I felt bereaved, as if I had had my own children taken away. Since their father didn't want them to have any contact with my mum, we were somewhat blacklisted as well. My brother and I would visit the twins on occasion after school, when they were being cared for by their grandparents. This was difficult and clearly made Nan and Granddad uncomfortable and worried. These visits were bittersweet, and I often felt dreadfully guilty for not visiting enough; unwanted when I did visit, and eventually unworthy of seeing them at all, and inflicting my depressive affect on them. For many years I was devastated about being torn away from my little brother and sister, and about their being deprived of a mother, and it has taken many years for it to dull to a manageable sense of sorrow, and anger at my mum for letting this happen to her.