Across the pond.

I don’t really have many ties with America any more. I have always loved the country, wanting to visit from a young child. However when I finally got my chance (see post: ‘America and The Late Teenage Years’), it didn’t pan out in the way I had hoped. I barely remember the first trip other than my sister also being there. Several years on and my sister would refer to the holiday as ‘hell’ and that she was forced to go on it against her will. I was a young teen and oblivious to her and our father’s struggling relationship.

I think my father was oblivious too but out of choice. He was never one to face adversities and upset.

The second trip was more significant. Life-changing even. It was of course, as I’ve mentioned before, the moment my father’s true nature became apparent to me. He had chosen to reveal himself to me on my dream holiday in the country I loved so much.

Why was America so appealing to me?

I have always considered myself to be a Londoner. I love London. As many of my friends are choosing to leave it, I just can’t. It is my home and yes, it’s expensive but it’s so diverse, there is no way I’m leaving it. However, from a very young age, I have loved America.

My father used to tell me we’d live there one day. He even applied for a Green Card but said he had ‘lost’ the forms and that he could not follow it through. I never understood why he did that. Perhaps he thought he would lose his control over me if we had been in the Land of the Free. That was the last thing he wanted me to feel.

We had family in America. My father’s brother, wife and children lived in Phoenix, Arizona. We had met them a few times when they had visited London as kids. I liked them but that was the wrong choice in my sister and mother’s eyes. They were poisonous people as they held my father in high regard. Why would they doubt him? He wasn’t abusing them. I wasn’t really allowed to mention them as a child. I couldn’t risk upsetting my sister. My mother regularly warned that it was to ‘be avoided at all costs’.

So we never spoke of them and I was never allowed to build a relationship with my cousins.

The cousin that called the hospital on 08/08/12 was indeed one of my cousins from Arizona although she now lives on the East Coast. We don’t really have a relationship and as she is back in my sister’s life I am slightly wary of her. I cannot trust my sister any more. No one realises what she is capable of. Just like him. Just like my father.

I want to go back to the U.S someday.

I hate that my last memory of it tarnished my love for the country. I hate that my father destroyed what could of been a wonderful holiday.

I hate that he stole my innocence.

4. How to hold a pencil.

God, this is an admission even for me but I hold my pencil in the strangest way. Always have done and have always questioned it.

I work in a school. I know how a child learns to hold a pencil. Most children come to school already with this skill. I remember writing and drawing as an infant so I must have learnt to hold my pencil at home however I’m 100% certain my parents never taught me this basic skill.

Why?

Well, it’s the same scenario with tying my laces. I hold my pencil completely differently to my family. My sister hold hers correctly as does my mother and my father never held it any other way than properly. So it leaves me puzzled to why I place the pencil between my middle and fourth finger on my right hand and not between my thumb and forefinger.

My father often teased me about my strange habit but when I asked him who I learnt it from, he would become enraged that I was accusing him of being an idiot. His answer was that I was the idiot as I could clearly not cope with the simplest of tasks. The only answer is that I taught myself and my parents never thought to correct me. Even if they did, it may have been too late as I had become adjusted to holding it that way. Was it neglect? Quite probably.

I often feel like a freak in my family. I stand out when all I want to do is fade in amongst them.

It can hurt sometimes if I write for too long, the pencil pressing against my fourth finger feels normal yet unusual although I’ve been writing this way for twenty seven years. I have tried to change my technique and write “normally” but I just can’t do it.

Is it so much to ask to be taught these basic skills? Surely it’s a child’s right.

Guess who?

Guess who?

David may kill me for posting this but I had to share it with all of you!

We had these photos placed before our wedding cake.
I must be around eight or nine in the photo. It is genuinely a time I have no clear memory of. A time that blurs into one. I cannot even remember where or when the picture was taken………..

Still, it makes me smile 🙂