Misfit to Maven. Ebonie Allard

But then, when I was 14, I didn’t understand it or appreciate it as I do now. I was rebellious; I had fire in my belly and passion in my heart. I was free spirited and dynamic but I was not dangerous or out of control. Or at least I didn’t think I was. One of the many strategies I had for coping with the ever-growing uncertainty in my life was to snoop through stuff; somehow knowing what was in people’s pockets, or mail or handbags meant that I felt more in control. One day when I was snooping, I found correspondence from a mental health clinic, which led me to believe that there was a possibility of my being sectioned.3 Like the time on the street when I was seven, and no longer sure that I could trust myself, this letter reinforced that belief and added a layer of evidence which had me questioning my sanity, telling me that I was ‘crazy’ or out of control.

      ANGRY

      ANGRY, YOU MAKE ME MAD,

      I CLENCH MY FISTS AND GRIT MY TEETH,

      MY HEAD BEGINS TO TIGHTEN,

      MY EYES GLAZE OVER,

      THE LUMP IN MY THROAT INCREASES BY MORE NUMBERS THAN IMAGINABLE,

      I PERSPIRE RAPIDLY,

      MY MIND RACES,

      MY FLESH CRAWLS WITH ADRENALIN,

      I SMELL FEAR! I LOVE IT!

      MY ANGER SWELLS.

      SLOWLY EACH ASPECT SHARPENS, I AM AWARE OF ALL...

      I FIGHT VERBALLY

      I KNOW WHAT I AM SAYING IS CRAP, BUT I PURSUE

      I KNOW THAT SOME (AND ONLY SOME MIND YOU) OF WHAT SHE’S MUTTERING IS TRUE, BUT I PURSUE.

      MY FINGERNAILS DIG DEEP INTO MY PALM,

      I AM DESTROYING THE FORT, IT IS WEAKENED,

      MY EYES CAN TAKE THE STRAIN NO LONGER,

      THE BOUGHS BREAK,

      THE SHIP SINKS,

      THE ANGRY SEAS FALL AWAITING THE NEXT STORM.

      HUH?

      SCARED, SO SCARED,

      AFRAID TO SPEAK FREE,

      ASHAMED TO BE ME,

      WORRIED ABOUT THE PAST,

      WHAT MY FUTURE BRINGS,

      THIS AND LOTS OF OTHER THINGS.

      WELLING UP INSIDE,

      THE TEARS BEING TO POUR,

      SILVERY DROPLETS, MORE AND MORE,

      LAMENTING OLD SORROWS,

      WHAT I’VE DONE WRONG,

      HOPING THE EVIDENCE WON’T LAST LONG,

      MY SHELL SHOWS HAPPINESS,

      INSIDE IS WEAK,

      AM I A FREAK?

      HOPING TO COPE,

      SITUATIONS OCCUR,

      ALL SEEMS A BLUR...

      HEAD IN VERTIGO,

      SENSELESS TALKING,

      BRAIN IS WALKING,

      I WISH IT WAS JUST ME,

      PLAYING WITH FOAM,

      I WANT TO GO HOME.

      – EXTRACTS FROM MY POEM JOURNAL DECEMBER 1995, AGED 14 AND A HALF.

I didn’t feel that I had anyone to talk to about what was going on for me and I was trying to process a lot. Sometimes I would come home and accidently slam all the doors, just trying to get to my room to cry. I had no idea what an empath4 was then, but I did know that often times I would be filled with all sorts of crazy feelings and just have to cry into my pillow until I could breathe again.

      Sometimes I would lie on my bed and write in my journal for hours; reams and reams of stuff I felt angry and sad and overwhelmed by. Most of it didn’t feel like mine. Sometimes I would write and cry for the starving children in Africa, or the girl I heard crying in the toilets at school. My belief about life was that it was messy. You couldn’t trust people. I found ways to stop it all feeling too overwhelming. At the time I thought I was doing great. I felt pretty unaffected by my family life. I felt sure that I was holding things together. I dyed my hair a different colour every week and began to find a style that was somewhere between punk rock and flower girl. Looking back I can see that I was incredibly ferocious and angry but putting on a mask of sugar and spice and all things nice. The only time I really felt good was when I climbed out of my bedroom window and sat alone, quietly gazing out over the rooftops and down to the sea, at the horizon and all its possibilities, while smoking a Lucky Strike cigarette.

      Most of the time I felt vulnerable and scared and alone, and I didn’t know what to do with those feelings so they blurted out sideways and I acted out. I escaped from home as often as I could. I made myself a home from home. From 14 to 17 I had the perfect best friend. We met at a camp in Wales, but lived just a few streets from one another. She was cool. In my eyes she was the real deal while I was just an imposter. I wanted to be just like her. In term time she went to a grammar school and hung out with attractive, wealthy boys and in the holidays she hung out at the camps with all the attractive hippie boys. Everyone fancied her and I wanted them to like me as much as they liked her! Her mum was liberal and lenient and let me stay over all the time. For a while I practically lived at their house. My friend and I were alike in many ways, but also very different. I aspired to be just like her. I decided that she had the perfect blend of normal and unique. I felt sure that she was more popular than me and my belief was that it was because she was skinnier. I figured that if I could get skinny, then everyone would like me more.

      Looking back over my diary entries while writing this book was both interesting and saddening. It became really clear, written there in black and white, that from the age of 14 until really relatively recently I thought and wrote really horrible things about myself over and over. It became habitual to put myself down, to call myself fat and ugly and stupid.

      Knowing what I know now about how powerful writing down our beliefs can be for manifesting and creating, it is no wonder that I spent so many years at war with myself:

      31ST JANUARY 1996

      NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS:

      I’VE DECIDED TO BECOME ANOREXIC OR SUCH LIKE.

      NO FOOD... IT’S ONLY BEEN TWO DAYS SO FAR, BUT HEY – LET’S SEE HOW LONG I CAN LAST...

      1ST FEB 1996

      TODAY I ATE:

      AN APPLE, 4 MOUTHFULS OF SPAGHETTI BOLOGNAISE.

      2ND FEB

      HALF A CHEESE SANDWICH. 2 RICE CAKES.

      A YOGHURT AND AN APPLE.

      TEN AND A HALF STONE. FUCK

      3RD FEB

      CHEESE AND MARMITE SANDWICH, PIECE OF TOAST,

      A PIECE OF FUDGE, A PIECE OF PIZZA.

      4TH FEB

      GOT STONED. BINGED. 2 PACKETS OF SPACE RAIDERS.

      CRÈME EGG. PACKET OF BISCUITS.

      5TH FEB

      I’M JUST A FATTY WHO CAN’T CONTROL HERSELF.

      I CAN’T EVEN BE ANOREXIC!

      I HATE MYSELF AND I WANT TO DIE.

      The conversation I’d had with my dad all those years before about those two anorexic girls swirled around in my head and even though I was smart enough to know starving myself was not a good idea, I so badly wanted to look like I fit in. During the holidays I did my best to make excuses about meals and skipped as many as I could. After the first week