My Mother My Mirror Page 24

  If I had learned how to shout with Sam, I certainly got plenty of practice with his daughter; and for a while I could assert my authority in this way. But she soon learned to shout back, with those awful slamming doors. I had brief episodes of absolute command, when I imagined I had regained control. I would completely put my foot down about fags, for example, and for a few days there would be no whiff of them. Then a while later it got rainy and I discovered she’d been smoking them sitting on her windowsill, blowing the smoke outside. And then I’d get distracted by something else in my life, and before I knew it she was smoking in her room again.

  When she was younger I would occasionally slap her; then feeling guilty I would invite her to slap me back, which she did with relish. By her mid teens she needed no invitation: we had some full-on fights. My most shameful memory is of tugging her neck with a scarf and having to take her to the osteopath to make her better; she apparently remembers pushing me so hard against the wall that I hit my head and there was blood in my hair.

  I would become completely determined; I would throw bottles of booze in the dustbin; I would tell her she must be in by a certain time or I wouldn’t let her go out again. Then she became so unbearable to live with that in the end I drove her into town, just to get rid of her. And of course I loved her, and I wanted her to be happy, and also hated her; and she loved me, but also hated me. And she did have a conscience that I could appeal to from time to time, and a part of her was distressed by her own behaviour and wanted to be orderly and organized and loveable. And then the next moment the desire to be free and reckless and kick everything behind her became too strong, and she was off again. And so we muddled along.

  At one point it all got too much for me and I went for a few sessions of therapy specifically about Judy. The most important thing I learned from that was not to allow her to abuse me. If she insisted on abusing herself, then in the end there was not a lot I could do about it; but it was important that I drew the line at allowing myself to be run ragged, otherwise I would become no use to either her or myself. And so I began to practice a sort of detachment. But it could be very painful to hear about her struggles. Like her father, when she was down she had a way of dragging me down with her, describing what was happening in such a dramatic way that I became very worried. Then a few hours later her inner sun came out, the darkness was forgotten and all was roses. I would take seriously what she had told me, then if I didn’t see her for a day or two I approached her the next time full of concern, only to be met with a blank look as if I was foolish to imagine that there could be anything wrong.

  The exception to this was when Niall broke her heart, which he did far too many times, by leaving her and being unfaithful to her. Then she would be so upset she would turn to me and confide in me and we would be close for a little while. Sometimes she would invite me into her bed and I would read her to sleep, just like I used to. I loved it that she needed me, though I could do little to ease the pain.

  But even in her darkest hours, her solution was often to shove it all under the carpet and go out with her friends. One moment she was sad and droopy, the next moment she had tapped into a hidden reserve of energy, had transformed her face with the skilful application of foundation, mascara and eye shadow, dressed herself in a gorgeous combination of skin-tight jeans, sparkly top and a skimpy jacket, and was persuading me that I must take her into town to meet so-and-so because she had promised them (a moment before on her mobile phone) and it was terribly important that they do such-and-such because otherwise so-and-so would be let down...

  Once she was there all the excuses that had got her there were forgotten, along with the promises to be back at a certain time. She stayed out ridiculously late; she took drugs and drank; once she even ended up in hospital again. Judy was, above all, someone who didn’t do things by halves. She would push everything to the extreme with wild abandon. She also believed that her parents were stupid for not embracing what was ‘normal’ – i.e. junk food, excessive drinking, watching films until she fell asleep every night, constantly communicating on her mobile phone, wearing the latest fashions. I have always thought, maybe naively, that if she had been in a more natural environment then her appetites may not have done her any harm; but the modern world is full of highly toxic substances and dangerous situations, and being Judy, she chose to learn the hard way.

  37

  Osho Leela

  Meanwhile I had jumped in to Osho Leela at the deep end. Looking at their calendar of events, and asking the people who lived there what they meant, I decided the ‘Humaniversity Training’ offered the most juicy and intense workshops going, and that by joining this I would most quickly and thoroughly feel a sense of belonging with these joyful, expressive, tactile people.

  The first time I went to stay in their big country house in Dorset, I was so scared. I sat on one of the sofas in the foyer, trying not to cry. Everyone seemed to know each other, and they were all so bold and confident.

  It was a relief when a man came around ringing a bell and we were ushered in to the big Group Room. Each of the weekends I attended had a different theme – personal power, emotional release, passionate relating, bodywork - yet the differences between them were far less than the similarities.

  Confronted by all these people, I was at first acutely aware of the layers of fear and inhibition that surrounded me. It’s as if I couldn’t see anyone else clearly: even my vision seemed slightly blurred. I was locked inside myself, self-conscious and trapped, not knowing how to relate, feeling unhappy and alone.

  The first most important exercise was always one in which, as in the AUM, we were given the chance to release some of that top layer of awkwardness. I could now use the energy with which I was holding everything inside me to take the lid off and let the frustration come out in long-squashed screams and shouts and ‘fuck-you!’s. Sometimes I felt genuinely angry; other times I would simply use it as an opportunity to stand my ground, to feel my power for once. I found myself shouting things such as, “It’s MY power! Get out of my body! Get out of my mind! How dare you?! You stupid bitch! Who do you think you are?! It’s just your stupid fucking ego, that’s all it is! Shut up! shut up!! SHUT UP!!!” Again and again, the mother theme: tearing off the strips and lumps and threads that I had been carrying all my life, the habits that had become me, the personality I had formed to accommodate hers, the person who was afraid to show her true colours in case she became destructive and unkind.

  Of course, I had already dealt with the majority of my angst on the Hoffman course, but it was becoming clear there were more layers to be explored, in fact that this process would probably last a lifetime. It was only because I had done that deep, personal and tremendously life-changing work that I was now able to embrace the challenge of being true to myself out here in the real, live, dynamic world: to discover who I was in relation to other people.

  Having said that, it would often take at least twenty-four hours before I really felt comfortable, open and free. Before that, tears were never far away: a familiar place in which my feelings leaked pathetically through a little gap in my defences, so that I was neither completely sealed off nor completely open, but stuck between the two, suffering. However, I was learning that rather than hiding in shame when I felt like this it was a good idea to reach out to other people – something I had to do on my own initiative, because on these courses individual attention was not necessarily supplied.

  There was one man who became particularly valuable to me in this way. Clive lived at Osho Leela and knew everyone and was quite popular, so I didn’t always manage to connect with him, but whenever I did he was so kind, so gentlemanly – giving me for that time his undivided attention, his empathy and sympathy. And just as important, he had a brilliant sense of humour which could easily tip my tearfulness into hilarious laughter. I hope I was a support to him too, because I know none of us escaped without feeling periodically confronted and upset – it was just part of the process. But me being new
er to the whole thing, I have to admit that at this time I probably leant on him more than he leant on me.

  Issues around authority and personal power were inevitably some of the most challenging. The way the course was run, everyone was expected to do as they were told, all at the same time. Sleep deprivation was part of the technique: if we were lucky enough to go to bed at all, then we were woken early for yet more energetic catharsis. If we tried to have a moment alone we were sought out and drawn back to the group, because isolation was against the rules. The teachers, who had mostly come over from their base camp Centre in Holland, were objects of fear and resentment for me. Looking back, I do think they had a particularly rigid, impersonal and masculine approach which was far from ideal. But they were just doing their job, and it was satisfying to notice that as time went on I began to see them much more as human beings and less as domineering authority figures.

  Once I had been through the period of fighting my way out of my cage, then the fun began. There was still plenty of shouting and flinging our bodies around, because it’s important to stay free, and so easy to become all stiff and British and inhibited again. But there was also one opportunity after another to connect with everyone else, either individually or as a group, so that the sense of isolation was slowly eroded, and I began to genuinely feel a part of this community, one of these people: as good as them and as crazy as them; and the love and playfulness began to flow.

  They had a brilliant understanding of the need to show-off. Every Saturday night there was a fancy dress party where we all dove into their extensive dressing-up cupboard (a couple of small rooms with rails and boxes full of outlandish clothes) and found ourselves garments to fit with the current theme, be it sixties night, brides and grooms, cowboys and Indians... I generally found something sexy: attracting men and learning to be more confident in my sexual power was my priority.

  After we had all milled around and danced and chatted and admired each others’ costumes for a while, it was time for the catwalk. A couple of the staff took charge, and we would line the room on two sides, leaving a broad path down the middle; then the first person or couple was invited to strut their stuff. One or two at a time we strode forward, the DJ put on a song to suit our act and we made our way slowly from one end of the room to the other, posing and gyrating, making wild and outrageous gestures and body movements, revelling in the undivided, non-judgemental attention of the loved-up crowd, as much as our self-consciousness would allow.

  ‘Boundaries’ was a bit of a dirty word in this world: an unfortunate affliction that we were all trying to rid ourselves of. I do think this was taking it too far, and I knew of a few people who were confused and damaged by this ethos; but having become self-aware enough to be confident in what was acceptable to me and what wasn’t, I was happy to explore the edge of what felt safe and familiar, knowing I had an inner sense to refer back to. If I had done no therapy before... well, I simply wouldn’t have been there.

  So I thrust my hips and wiggled my bust and tossed my head and stalked up to the other end, where I was asked for my made-up name and given an enthusiastic round of applause, regardless of how brilliant or ridiculous I judged myself. I remember one of the teachers saying, “As much love as you haven’t received in your life, that’s as much as you need.” Such a simple statement, but such an inclination when we haven’t been loved enough to feel we don’t deserve it, to deny ourselves what we need the most. And often what we need just isn’t available. But in this rich environment the love flowed thicker and faster as the days went by: all I had to do was dare to enjoy it.

  And by the end of each long weekend everything I had gone through to get there was thoroughly worthwhile: I was high as a kite, my heart wide open, loving everyone in all their wonderful diversity, words flowing from my lips like water, my body so free I felt I could dance forever: a dance in which I was a part of the music and the music was part of me. Fear was a distant memory: I had arrived, with my people on my planet. I wanted nothing more than to celebrate for the rest of my life.

  After six months of the Humaniversity training I realized that a sense of belonging was an internal thing, and I could feel it just as well without committing myself to these expensive monthly weekends. So I opted out of the course and started going to all sorts of other things: introductory weekends, dance and theatre groups, seasonal festivals; and from time to time another Humaniversity group.

  Osho Leela became like a second home to me. I didn’t have a boyfriend at the time, but it mattered much less than it would normally have done. There was always ample opportunity for intimacy, closeness, cuddles and deep and meaningful conversations with all sorts of different people. Often between sessions I would be sitting on those sofas in the foyer, either on a man’s lap or cuddled up with a couple of girls – though to be honest, I was still slightly scared of women and far more comfortable with men.

  I remember one introductory weekend where the newcomers were particularly fun and adventurous, and we created a great pile on one of the sofas. It began with me in the middle with my arms around two lovely men on either side, then someone came and sat on my lap and two women sat on the two men’s laps, and others climbed on top of them. Thinking about it now, I don’t know how I didn’t get terribly squashed; but somehow we made a wonderful great human pyramid, all giggling and loving the closeness... And shy little me was right in the middle!

  From time to time I would have a crush on someone, or feel upset about the way someone treated me... All the inevitable complexities of human interaction took place; but there was such an openness and willingness to be kind to each other, that I never went away with unresolved feelings. By the end of the few days I was staying there, I had always been able to talk with the person concerned and work things out.

  I had found where I belonged, not just inside myself but in the outside world – with like-minded people who understood, like I did, that love was the most important thing of all.

  38

  Singing & Dancing

  By this time I had finally finished with Jamie, and a major way for me to cope with the pain was to sing back. I had spent so long devotedly listening to his songs of love and longing; now it began to occur to me that I had a voice too – in fact that part of my love for him was a love for an unexpressed part of myself, the strangled voice that wanted to be heard - the singer in me. He never wanted me to join in with his music, despite how much I appreciated it and how much I would have loved to, but just before we finally parted company he did take me to a music shop and show me which keyboard and recording equipment he thought would best help me write and compose songs.

  Towards the end of our relationship I was part of a therapy group that met monthly in a big house on Dartmoor, and I spent a lot of my time there trying to cure myself of my addiction to Jamie, using the other members to role play him or myself, trying to see more and more clearly how destructive it was, how I would never be nourished by him, how I needed to find my own power again, to push him away, to be angry and assertive and regain my self-respect. They would goad me, to try to make me see how self-abusive the situation was becoming and how much I needed to be free.

  There was a moment when I finally got it: I knew I’d had enough. I rushed over and seized the handle of the great Victorian door, pulled it back and slammed it with all my might, yelling for him to get out of my life. Jamie was a huge lesson for me: such a handsome boy, such a sexy pop star image, and he made love so beautifully. He ticked all my fairytale boxes, so I responded by giving him my all. But he didn’t really meet me, not where it counted: he didn’t even want me. It was time to stop projecting my fantasies onto people and wake up to what relationships were really about.

  A few days later I had a poignant dream in which I was trying to get in to a house with a dead man inside, and after this I wrote a song about closing the door on our dead relationship. Soon there were more songs: sad, longing songs and angry, pushing-away songs. I learned how to use the keyboard
as a rudimentary sort of backing and dared myself to go to an open mic night in a pub, where I sang to a room full of people. This gave me confidence, and my voice grew a little stronger.

  The following summer, back at a festival at Osho Leela, I went to a voice workshop in which we were divided into small groups and encouraged to write our own songs, for a performance later on. I worked with the other people for a while, but I knew what I really wanted was the chance to sing the songs I had already written in front of the Leela audience, so I asked the teacher if this might be possible. I can’t remember now exactly what happened. I think she said yes, but maybe I wasn’t assertive enough, or I didn’t make it clear how important it was to me, because at that moment I hadn’t quite admitted it to myself. All I know was that in the end I didn’t get the chance to sing, and I was terribly upset.

  I sat on a bench in the garden with a man I had recently made friends with and sobbed, filled on the one hand with an intense desire to be seen and heard, and on the other hand an overwhelming shame that I could even think this way... How could I be so demanding? Who was I to ask to be heard? Oh no: surely I wasn’t becoming like Carmen! Yet through my tears I knew for the first time, very clearly, that I did want to be seen and heard, and that it was about time little Andrea admitted that. One way or another, I had to honour this part of me and give her what she needed.

  I also needed to understand more about what went wrong with me and relationships. As Jamie had ultimately proved – and Sam before him - my lifetime habit of trying to force men into an idealized image of my perfect prince just resulted in one disappointment after another. I knew I wasn’t the only one: many people I spoke to recognized the sad story of excitement and recognition followed by disillusionment and aloneness. I began to see a skilful woman therapist once a week to look deeply at what caused me to make the choices I did and whether I could learn to make better ones.