I’m not sure when I actually left my body – whether it was the racially abused 7 year old or the abruptly abandoned, devastated and heart-broken 14 year old living in fear. All I know is that somewhere along the line, I’d abandoned myself completely. From 14 onwards, I was emotionally and spiritually broken and a different energy had begun to consume me. My ‘Babadook’ had begun to possess me….and it was living within me for a very long time…
It’s just too huge a subject in my life. That’s probably why it stuck in my throat chakra, not being able to spit it out.
I never coined the word ‘Babadook’ although it might ring a bell. If you’re not familiar with it – no spoilers. It’s a movie I was drawn to watch about 7-8 years ago when I was swept up full flow into the rapids of my descent. It’s not uncommon is it: messages often come into our life in symbolism and metaphor with books or movies we’re drawn to, something that speaks to you at a visceral level nudging you into understanding something about your own life. I could tell from the poster that it was on the creepy, horror-type side (which I’m not really into and therefore not easy bed-time viewing for me). But nevertheless I gave in to the internal nudge to watch it. And yes it was as creepy as hell. To the uninitiated soul, that’s all it is – a chilling horror movie. But if you watch it metaphorically, you’ll understand the deeper meaning and message.
As the story unfolded, I knew exactly what this movie was all about: the repressed pain body. Unacknowledged grief and unhealed trauma, stuffed into the recesses of the psyche, unresolved and repressed, simmering in the background to boiling point and the unwitnessed exiled parts of that trauma-pain-body frantically searching for the tiniest opening to release itself. The more you try and hide it, destroy it, burn it, without acknowledging the pain body, the more all-consuming it becomes, appearing again and again and again, each time reappearing stronger and more malevolent. And if you don’t confront and heal your pain, it will eventually manifest with your inner demon literally becoming you, possessing you, controlling you, pathologically. The film spoke to me at a visceral level, as I drew parallels with my own life.
At that point in time, I was around 42 or 43 years old. I knew I had an abyss of unresolved pain, contributing to a major breakdown in 2017; it was starkly apparent to me that I was consumed by my shadow for much of my teens and into my early-adult life. The pain had shackled my soul and possessed me. And I knew I hadn’t healed any of it, raw as the day it happened, which I glossed over back then with false positivity telling myself: “it’s in the past now”, “I’ve moved on”, “it doesn’t bother me anymore”or flippantly telling myself:“get over it” and “just get on with it”. Like the woman in the movie who couldn’t come to terms with what had happened in her life, I hadn’t fully come to terms with what had happened in mine….
(quote from The Beautiful in the Bad click to read): “I was polarised by my shadow for most of my 20’s, an all consuming, rageful, bitter, hateful, envious, jealous and angry shadow, (which I think I need to write more about) a by-product of my pain body, absolutely no doubt about that“
My mum told me how she witnessed me change, for the worse, literally overnight, when I was around 14 years old. It was after the unholy trinity abandoned us surreptitiously and suddenly. I think that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
From a loving, congenial, attentive and crazily creative 14 year old with bags of initiative, I became bi-polar with an angry, angst-ridden, foul-mouthed, bitter, confrontatious, spiteful creature that would rear its head, vitriolic venom aimed at anything that upset me. And no, this wasn’t just teenage hormones running amok. There was thick, black bile of melancholy infused with shards of rage cutting through my veins. A dark energy took my soul hostage for years, kept it shackled and consumed me. Just like the woman in the movie, I’d unknowingly stuffed away trauma ans grief into the corners of my psyche, only for that pain body to metasize into a malevolent, stronger, darker force which took over in an invisible coup d’etat.
I had become possessed by my pain.
It didn’t start at 14 years old; my pain body began to take shape around the age of 7.
From age of 7, I’d learned what it feels like to live in fear of terror every single day of my life, being hyper-vigilant against racial abuse and harassment where we lived. We were hideously targeted as the ‘only pakis in the street’ which I recount in this blog here. This was in 1980’s Britain where the National Front and ‘paki bashing’ was rife. My body would react, tensing up in defence with any passer-by in the street, accompanied with the sinking feeling and heavy anticipation of being hurled racial diatribes or worse, being attacked. Living in fear becomes you and I got used to being the hunted. There wasn’t much support in those days; the Police would come to our home, take some sort of statement from my mum, but nothing would change. They didn’t give a shit. Mum was too scared to move, thinking we might jump from the frying pan into the fire, so it was far better to stay with the devils you know. It wasn’t straightforward to just leave either. We were in council housing back then so it was up to them to get us rehomed, and where they’d dump us, that was anyone’s guess. The racial abuse became a part of everyday life, our new normal, something I had to toughen up and suck up as a little, girl although I’d inhale the respite in the quiet in-between when the abuse would lie dormant for a while. I can only imagine what that racial abuse actually did to me as a child, placed on a battle field of hatred like that, how my system became attuned to feeling terrorised, in high alert defence of real danger, unable to defend myself. Defence became my modus operandi as a child which has stuck with me for life – it’s still my normal reflex and stand-by setting. I expect attack and ready for it, on high alert. Highly strung is what I’m often called. That’s what happens when you’ve lived on your nerves for so long. Even today I’m way too defensive and mocked for not being able to ‘take a joke‘ or jovial jibe – it cuts deep and I feel affronted. You think that everyone’s got it in for you. But delicate and fragile is what you become when you’ve grown up in the face of real fear. And there’s no shame in being delicate and fragile.
To compound matters, I was the child to a dysregulated mother – scorned, verbally abused and beaten by her emotionally unavailable parents, I had similar treatment when her rage was triggered; learned behaviour can be a dangerous thing.
At 11 years old when I started secondary school, I learned what depression felt like when I was singled out and victimised by cruel coming-of-age girls for being the odd one out, the only coloured girl in my form class who didn’t know anyone. School became hostile territory but returning home every day was becoming equally as hostile. Far from a safe and cosy haven, acrid, bitter and acrimonious tensions were rising in the family household between my mum and her sisters who lived with us, where I witnessed regular vitriolic rows between the women, on occasions even physical. Have you ever seen women fight? Three against one, two of them restraining my mum when she tried to lash out in self-defence. It was a soul-destroying and despicable sight for a then pre-teen girl. There was no respite which ever way I turned, nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide, racists to deal with on the street, bitter acrimony at home and bullied at school. I felt battered from all directions and to be honest, and looking back, I’m surprised I didn’t run away from home but maybe the fear of being hunted kept me with the devils I knew rather than the devils I didn’t know.
By 14 I’d learned what female and familial betrayal meant and to have your heart shattered into a million pieces. My mum and I were abandoned stealthily, suddenly and surreptitiously by the unholy trinity who lived with us back then, women who were my surrogate mothers (that’s what aunts are), who I whole-heartedly loved and trusted with my life. And it’s my life that they played with. Reeling with shock and utterly shattered, there was no room to process or grieve as I was obligated and compelled to hold space for my mum, being the only confidante for her. In fact, I don’t even remember crying the day I came home and mum had told me they’d taken what they wanted and left. I was numb to the sudden betrayal. The most consuming emotion I recall was fear of being alone and the terrifying fact they’d conspired to leave us in that hell hole to suffer our fate and perish, whatever that fate was, fed to the wolves, left to fend for ourselves and fight the local thugs off alone (whilst the unholy trinity jetted off on fancy all inclusive holidays, unbeknownst to me at the time which I discovered decades later). Before that we had safety in numbers. Now mum and I were alone. It was that bit that has been unpalatable for all these years and it was until only a few weeks ago that I finally found the strength to write about it, a year into this healing journey (undigested pain part 1 and part 2). I’m only now coming to terms with that dastardly deed and I don’t think I’ve fully healed my broken heart, how my own flesh and blood could put a 14 year old girl and her mother in the face of actual harm and danger, potentially to perish alone, completely unsupported and isolated: we never knew what the local racist thugs would think of next to try and victimise u). I remember how isolated we were. We couldn’t just pick up the phone and call someone for help – there wasn’t anyone to phone. No family, no community. As a single, divorced Indian mother, still quite taboo in our culture back then, Mum felt the shame of this, like the outlier, and therefore stayed away from trying to gain help from our community, in fear of being stigmatised, labelled and judged, which brought with it other fears of exposing us as easy targets. The Indian culture can be torturously acidic and hideously judgmental if you didn’t fit the cultural norm. So we struggled in the face of fear, alone.
I’m finally processing this part, the sudden and surreptitious abandonment, 35 years following the event. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long but the pain of that betrayal is so vast it echoes, and so thorny the pain is still palpable, with roots embedded deeply, causing a deep rupture when I tried to pull it out too quickly. But in writing this I think I am finally beginning to unroot this pain, seaming the wound back together stitch by stitch, and coming to terms with everything that happened and shaped me. As I’ve said before that it’s not what happened to you but what it did to you, internally, emotionally and spiritually. We are all made up differently. You cannot crudely compare traumas. Our DNA is unique. No two healing journey’s will ever be the same. And if you hate people saying (or reading from new agers) to “stop having a victim mentality” “you need to move on” then give them short shrift. It’s not about “living in the past” or having a “victim mentality”. Internal wounds need a different kind of care. So if it’s taking longer to heal than someone else, have some compassion for yourself.
Continued in Part Two…
(PS it’s taken me weeks to try and write this post which speaks volumes. The 110x revised post, remember?).
If baring my soul to you (and the world) has moved or touched a part of you in any way, then your support would be very welcome. To help me on this healing journey, perhaps you’d like to buy me a coffee (although mines a tea) via the link below:
Leave a Reply