A New Chapter

I've had a bit of an about-turn to the book idea I detailed a couple of days ago http://stitchesbeadsrocknroll.blogspot.co.uk/2014/01/this-is-not-self-help-book.html I think that to write a factual book to help kids being bullied would actually be beyond me, in that I don't have the training or expertise to deal with child-psychology and could potentially do more harm than good. I don't feel qualified to give advice that may backfire on some poor kid and make the whole situation even worse.

But fear not those of you in anticipation of meeting me at future book-signings!

This afternoon I remembered back to those funny little short stories that I used to write for exams that were always so sad but that also seemed cathartic at the time. Then I wondered if I could expand on these and help exorcise some of my own demons at the same time. When writing the advice is always to write about what you know and I know no-one and nothing better than I know myself so the idea dawned on me to write a loosely autobiographical piece about similar experiences to my own.

I managed to write the first chapter straight off which surprised me, I didn't realise it would roll off the pen so quickly. Maybe it's something that's been trying to get out for a long time? I've set myself up with a Wattpad account so you can follow the progress of the book - http://www.wattpad.com/34742618-a-new-chapter?d=ud

So without further ado ..........

Chaper 1 -

"So what brings you to counselling?" 

The million dollar question, at this point one has a variety of choices. In the past I've tended to veer between an over-enthusiastic exhortation of the wonders of getting life's worries of my chest to a non-sensical mutter of "seemed like a good idea". I've worked this scene more times than I care to admit and can watch it almost like a film, playing different doctors off against the different versions of me that I can conjure up.  

The Psychologist has already gotten under my skin, she appears only a few years older than me, a world away from most of the other professionals I've encountered with their years of experience dealing with screw-ups like me. She's softly spoken, with an almost fragile attractiveness that immediately puts the defensive half of my brain into direct conflict with it's counterpart which is leaping foward to accept her voice's friendly embrace. 

I want to dislike her, she sharply defines my physical flaws. I push back into the chair in a vague attempt to hide my flabby form, concious of the nagging voice in my ear berating me for not wearing a longer top that wouldn't necessitate the constant watch to be sure my tummy wasn't making a bid for freedom. 

I want her to be the ideal excuse for why yet more counselling hasn't worked. The rational part of my brain chides me and tells me that "She made me feel uglier" is not a valid reason for sabotaging the session. Grumbling to itself the thought settles back down and my brain focuses back to the subject in hand, "Why am I here?" 

I have to yank back the answer on the tip of my tongue that my anger is trying to spit forth. "I hate myself so much that on sleepless nights I fantasise about slicing my own face off so that I don't have to be me any more". But she doesn't deserve that level of detail yet, she's here to help I reprimand myself "you never know this could be the one who cracks it" the hope in my brain twitters. So after a deep breath with a subconscious hand on the hem of my t-shirt to keep my tummy at bay I outline my story. 

To amuse myself I inwardly recite my story in the manner of Hollywood-style reporter "Famed for her abrupt mood swings ...... enjoyed a simple, loving childhood with her family. She began to encounter difficulties upon moving up to secondary school when, inexplicably, her entire year group decided they hated her" the crown awwwww's and the reporter continues "Since this trying period ..... has struggled with issues such as depression, anxiety, self-harm (Isn't that SO last season at her age?) and ladies and gentlemen that old chestnut self-esteem!" in my head-movie the scene would cut to a photo of me with artfully tousled hair and far-away teary eyes. I note to myself that I must learn to cry in an attractive manner such as displayed by actresses accepting oscars.  

The session continued in the normal well-trodden manner, my solemn promise not to neck a bottle of pills on the way home "really?" I thought "I'm more concerned with the availability of a decent sandwich". The end of the session came with her conclusion, events in my past were preventing me from moving foward, no suprises there!

She pointed out that to have any hope of healing I had to face these memories and experiences once and for all. I left the session with an anonymous, lined exercise book with the instruction to write everything down as if I was experiencing it there and then with the most important instuction BE HONEST.